B    3    325 


JiPOVGIi 


BT 
P0ROTMLEOIMBD 


GRICM6O 

GBQ6GRO 


D 

rft> 


Copyrighted  by 
the  author    * 
1895 


CAPE  OF  STORMS 


"So  this  old  mariner,  Bartholomew  Diaz, 
called  that  place  the  cape  of  torments  and  of 
storms  and  blessed  his  Maker  that  he  was 
safely  gone  by  it.  And  even  so,  in  the  lives 
of  us  all,  there  is  a  Cape  of  Storms,  the  which 
to  pass  safely  is  delightful  fortune,  and  on 
which  to  be  wrecked  is  the  common  fate. 
For  it  often  happens  that  this  Corner 
Dangerous  holds  a  woman's  face."  *  *  * 
— An  Unknown  Author 


M205706 


1894 

ST.  JOSEPH 
FRIDENAU 
CHICAGO 

1895 


This  edition  is  limited  to  800  copies. 


OLOcUe 

IFE  is  a  cup  that  is  better  to  sip 
than  to  drain ;  the  taste  of  the 
dregs  is  very  bitter  in  the 
mouth. "  I  shall  never  forget  those  words 
of  our  dear  minister's,  I  suppose,  because 
so  much  that  has  happened  since  he  first 
uttered  them  to  us  as  we  sat  in  his  Sunday- 
school  class  has  shown  me  the  truth  of 
them.  Dick  himself,  I  remember,  was 
especially  loth  to  believe  Mr.  Fairly's 
monition ;  indeed,  none  of  us  young 
bloods  cared  to  think  that  there  was  any 
thing  in  the  life  before  us  that  was  not 
altogether  worth  living,  and  when  Dick 
spoke  up  plainly  and  quite  proudly, 
arguing  against  the  pastor's  words,  we 
were  all  silent  approvers  of  his  challenge. 
Dick  was  always  the  bravest  boy  in  the 
village  ;  and  we  had  long  since  come  to 
be  admirers  rather  than  rivals.  But  Mr. 
Fairly  only  shook  his  head  and  smiled  a 
little — he  had  a  wonderful  smile,  and 
his  eyes  were  always  shining  with  kind 
ness — and  patted  Dick  on  the  head,  with 
a  gentle,  "Well,  well,  my  boy,  let  us 
hope  so  ;  let  us  hope  so.  Perhaps  you 
will  be  fortunate  above  your  fellows." 


Cape  of  Storms 

The  incident  dwells  in  my  memory  for 
many  reasons.  It  was,  as  I  have  said, 
a  curiously  prophetic  sentence  of  our 
pastor's  ;  besides  that,  it  was  the  last 
Sunday  that  we  were  all  together  in 
Lincolnville,  we  boys  who  had  played, 
and  fought  and  learned  together.  Early 
in  the  week,  Dick — somehow,  long  after 
the  world  has  come  to  know  him  only 
as  Richard  Lancaster,  I  am  still  unable 
to  think  of  him  as  anything  but  the 
"Dick"  of  my  boyhood — was  to  leave 
the  village  for  the  world  ;  he  was  going 
to  begin  a  life  for  himself,  up  there  in 
that  mysteriously  magnetic  maelstrom — - 
the  town.  Like  Dick  Whittington  of 
old,  and  every  fresh  young  blood  every 
day  of  this  world's  life,  he  was  going  up 
to  town  to  conquer.  Before  him  lay  the 
beautiful  pathway  into  a  glorious  future  ; 
promises  and  pleasures  were  like  hedges 
to  that  way  that  he  was  going  to  tread. 
He  was  all  eagerness,  all  hope,  all  am 
bition.  And,  to  be  just,  perhaps  there 
was  never  a  boy  went  up  to  town  from 
Lincolnville  who  had  better  cause  to  be 
full  of  pleasant  hopes  for  his  future  than 
Dick.  Certainly,  it  was  the  first  time 
the  little  place  had  evolved  such  a  talent; 
and  it  felt  a  pardonable  pride  in  the  boy; 
it  expected,  perhaps,  even  more  than  he 
did,  and  was  looking  forward  to  the  re 
flected  glory  of  being  his  native  village. 

If  you  have  traveled  through  the  West 
at  all,  and  have  anything  more  than  a 
car-window  acquaintance  with  the  great 
Middle  West,  you  know  Lincolnville 
fairly  well,  I  think.  Not  that  you  may 
ever  have  been  to  the  village  itself,  but 


Cape  of  Storms 

because  it  is  a  type  of  thousands  of 
other  villages  scattered  throughout  the 
country. 

It  is  the  county-seat,  and  is  built 
upon  the  checker- board  plan,  with  a 
sort  of  hollow  square  in  the  middle, 
filled,  as  an  Irishman  might  say,  with 
a  park.  The  sides  of  this  square  form 
the  business  heart  of  the  place;  each 
street  that  runs  away  from  the  square  is 
lined  with  pretty  dwelling-houses  of 
frame  or  brick,  so  that  the  village  looks 
like  an  octopus  with  four  large  tentacles 
stretching  toward  every  point  of  the 
compass.  The  streets  are  fringed  with 
shade  trees  of  every  sort,  and  in  mid 
summer  the  place  looks  like  a  veritable 
nest  of  green  and  cool  bowers.  The 
county  is  strictly  and  agricultural  one; 
the  farmers  come  to  "town,"  as  they 
call  it,  every  Saturday;  at  least,  hitch 
their  horses  to  the  iron  railing  that  sur 
rounds  the  park,  and  spend  the  day  sell 
ing  produce,  buying  dry  goods,  imple 
ments  or  other  necessaries.  The  face 
of  the  village  rarely  changes;  there  is  an 
occasional  fire  on  the  "square,"  may 
hap,  and  then  the  newer  building  that 
fills  the  gap  is  in  decided  improvement 
over  the  old  one;  young  men  are  for 
ever  going  out  into  the  world,  and  old 
men  are  for  evercoming  back  thither  to 
die;  for  the  rest,  one  might  fancy  that, 
if  you  came  into  the  world  again  a  hun 
dred  years  from  now,  you  would  find  the 
same  farmers  doing  their  "trading"  at 
exactly  the  same  stores  that  they  now 
favor.  On  occasions  of  a  political  con 
vention,  or  a  circus,  the  town  takes  on 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  festive  aspect,  and  the  roads  leading 
to  the  square  are  filled,  all  day  long, 
with  wagons  that  have  come  from  the 
further  edges  of  the  county.  During 
the  three  or  four  days  of  the  County 
Fair,  too,  there  is  great  activity  between 
the  village  and  the  Fair  Grounds,  and, 
if  it  be  a  dry  summer,  the  air  between 
those  places  is  merely  one  huge  cloud  of 
dust.  Occasionally  the  pretty  little 
Opera  House  has  an  entertainment  that 
draws  out  such  of  the  citizens  as  have 
no  very  severe  religious  scruples  against 
the  theatre.  For  the  rest,  the  place  is 
an  admirable  home  of  quiet.  Young 
blood  chafes  at  this  quiet;  old  blood 
finds  there  the  peace  it  seeks. 

In  the  very  nature  of  things,  a  place 
of  this  sort  is  chiefly  concerned  with  its 
own  affairs;  the  main  theme  of  conver 
sation  are  its  own  people.  Everyone  is 
perfectly  acquainted  with  his  neighbor's 
affairs,  and  not  infrequently,  in  fact,  is 
able  to  inform  that  neighbor  of  certain 
details  relating  to  the  latter,  that  had 
until  then  been  unknown  to  him.  So  it 
was  that,  at  the  time  of  Dick's  leaving 
Lincolnville,  the  good  people  of  that 
place  knew,  much  better  than  he  did 
himself,  the  surety  of  his  engagement  to 
Dorothy  Ware.  He  himself  would  have 
been  only  too  glad  to  be  as  sure  as  they 
were,  when  he  heard  the  rumors  he  was 
given  to  smiling  rather  sardonically. 

He  came  to  me  once,  I  remember, 
and  looked  at  me  for  a  long  time  with 
those  clear,  grey  eyes  of  his.  "Tell 
me,  old  man,"  he  said,  "do  you  think 
she  cares  for  me?  "  It  is  a  stupid  ques- 


Cape  of  Storms 

tion,  this;  but  almost  every  boy  who  is 
in  love  puts  it  to  some  friend  or  other, 
in  the  quest  for  confirmation  of  his  fears 
or  hopes.  "Why,  Dick,"  I  said— still 
more  foolishly,  perhaps,  now  that  I  look 
back  on  it — "Why,  Dick,  of  course  she 
does.  We  all  do."  "Oh,  "he  flung  in, 
impatiently,"  "I  don't  mean  that!"  I 
knew  what  he  meant;  but  who  shall  tell, 
being  a  man,  whether  a  girl  cares  or 
'  not?  Although,  if  ever  a  boy  was  made 
to  be  well  beloved,  surely  it  was  Dick. 

He  was  always  a  high-spirited  young 
ster;  some  of  his  tricks  are  still  legends 
of  the  old  high-school  in  his  native 
place.  He  never  liked  to  fight,  being 
naturally  mild  of  temper;  but  when  he 
was  roused  beyond  endurance  lie  was  a 
veritable  Daniel.  His  father  died  when 
he  was  only  four  years  old;  to  his  mother 
he  was  the  most  devoted  oi  sons. 

It  was  when  he  v/as  about  ten  years  old 
that  his  talent  for  drawing  first  proved 
itself.  It  came  to  him  in  the  way  that 
it  has  come  to  many  who  have  since 
made  the  world  listen  to  their  names — 
on  the  old  blackboard  in  the  school 
room.  It  was  a  caricature  of  Mr.  Fairly, 
I  remember,  who  was  always  very  tall  and 
very  thin,  and  whose  face  was  like  that 
of  a  French  general's  under  the  empire. 
Dick  exaggerated  all  these  peculiarities 
most  deftly  with  his  chalk,  and  then  it 
so  happened  that  Mr.  Fairly  himself 
walked  in  and  found  the  caricature.  He 
only  looked  at  Dick  quietly,  and  put  his 
hand  down  on  his  shoulder  with  a  sub 
dued,  "I  am  a  good  deal  older  than  you, 
my  boy,  a  good  deal  older.  You're 
5 


Cape  of  Storms 

sorry,  aren't  you?"  And  something  in 
our  minister's  tone  must  have  touched 
Dick,  for  the  boy  put  his  head  down  and 
said:  ''Yes,  sir,"  with  a  little  choke  in 
his  voice.  Nor  do  I  think  that  from 
that  day  to  this  Dick  has  ever  drawn  or 
painted  in  caricature.  But  in  all  other 
ways  he  developed  his  talent  day  by  day 
with  really  wonderful  results.  He  al 
ways  had  a  rare  notion  of  color;  the 
autum  foliage  thereabouts  gave  him  the 
most  startling  effects.  He  used  to  go 
out  into  the  woods  in  mid-summer  and 
mid-winter — it  made  little  difference  to 
him — and  come  back  with  some  of  the 
prettiest  bits  of  landscape  work  I  have 
ever  seen.  There  were,  it  is  true,  cer 
tain  palpable  crudities  in  his  work,  due 
to  the  lack  of  any  training  save  that  of 
his  instincts,  but  those  would  undoubt 
edly  disappear  as  soon  as  he  came 
under  the  influence  of  a  proper  instructor. 
It  was  for  this  that  he  was  going  to  leave 
the  village  and  become  of  the  greater 
world  in  town.  His  mother  had  re 
belled  at  first;  she  was  growing  old,  and 
she  feared  the  thought  of  losing  sight  of 
him;  but  there  was  no  restraining  his 
ambition.  To  remain  cooped  up  in  that 
little  corral  of  a  place  all  his  life — oh, 
no;  that  was  not  at  all  the  thing  for 
Dick  Lancaster.  That  great  world,  out 
there,  that  he  had  read  and  heard  so 
much  about,  that  was  where  he  ought  to 
be;  and  it  was  there  he  wanted  to  wager 
and  to  win;  what  was  there  left  in  Lin- 
colnville?  He  could  do  nothing  more 
there;  his  life  was  beginning  to  be  a 
mere  stagnation.  He  must  out  and 
6 


Cape  of  Storms 

away.  This  longing  for  shaking  off  the 
shackles  of  that  narrow  village  life  was, 
as  much  as  ambition,  the  spur  that  sent 
him  out  into  the  larger  world.  And  I 
do  not  wonder  at  him.  Those  small 
places  are  not  fit  arenas  for  the  disport 
ing  of  ambitions  or  freedoms. 

At  this  time,  Dick  was  a  little  over 
one-and-twenty.  He  was  handsome  in 
a  dark,  olive-skinned  sort  of  way,  and 
his  eyes  had  the  longest  lashes  I  have 
ever  seen  in  a  man.  His  hair  curled  a 
little,  though  he  was  forever  trying  to 
comb  and  coax  the  curl  away;  he  hated 
it,  saying  that  curls  were  all  right  for  a 
girl,  perhaps,  but  not  for  a  man.  He 
was,  but  for  the  fact  that  he  was  very 
fond  of  good  cigars,  a  veritable  Pierrot. 
He  had  always  been  very  closely  under 
his  mother's  influence;  even  his  associa 
tion  with  the  boys  of  his  own  age  and 
class  had  not  been  enough  to  taint  him 
at  all.  He  had  a  fancy  that,  now  as  I 
consider  it,  after  all  these  years,  seems 
a  most  pathetic  one,  that  the  world  was 
a  very  beautiful  place  in  which  the 
wicked  were  always  punished,  if  not  by 
actual  stripes,  at  least  by  the  disdain  of 
their  fellowmen.  It  seems  strange,  per 
haps,  that  a  young  man  of  his  age 
should  still  hold  such  notions,  but  you 
must  remember  that  in  the  quieter  vil 
lages  of  our  country  it  is  possible  to  hold 
these  fancies  all  one's  life;  the  town  is 
the  great  disenchanter.  Dick  consid 
ered  that  he  had  two  things  to  live  for 
— his  ambition  and  Dorothy  Ware. 

It  was  beautiful,  the  way  the  boy 
sometimes  rhapsodized;  beautiful,  and 


Cape  of  Storms 

yet  in  the  light  of  after  events,  sad. 
"One  day,  you  know,"  he  said  in  one  of 
his  bursts  of  enthusiasm,  "I  will  be 
known  all  the  world  over  as  a  great 
painter.  People  will  come  to  my  studio 
and  wonder  at  it,  and  the  work  in  it. 
They  will  invite  me  everywhere.  I  will 
be  a  lion.  But  I  shall  always  place  my 
work  first;  admiration  shall  go  into  the 
last  place.  And  there  will  be  Dorothy! 
Dear  Dorothy!  I  haven't  asked  her 
yet,  you  know,  but  I  hope — oh,  yes,  I 
hope — that  it  will  be  all  right  between 
us.  Dorothy  will  help  me  in  everything; 
when  I  begin  to  flag,  or  to  lose  spirit, 
she  will  spur  me  on.  She  will  represent 
me  to  the  great  world  of  society  when  I 
am  hard  at  work;  she  will  be  my  verit 
able  Alter  Ego.  And  some  day — some 
day,  when  I  feel  that  my  brush  and  my 
hand  have  in  them  the  passion  for  my 
masterpiece,  I  will  paint  her  face — her 
face  !  "  He  took  up  a  photograph  that 
lay  on  the  table  before  him  and  looked 
at  it  steadily  for  an  instant  or  two. 
1  'Sweet  face  !  "  he  went  on,  "how  shall 
mere  paint  ever  represent  you  ?  There 
must  be  love,  too.  Love  and  paint. 
The  one  is  a  mere  trick  of  the  h&id  and 
eye;  the  other  is  mine  and  mine  alone. 
For  no  one  can  love  her  as  I  do. " 

As  for  Miss  Dorothy  Ware,  she  was 
eighteen  and  beautiful.  I  do  not  know 
that  any  woman  really  needs  a  fuller  de 
scription  than  that.  As  for  her  wit,  it  is 
too  early  in  this  chronicle  to  speak  of 
that;  nor  do  I,  personally,  differ  much 
from  Theophile  Gautier,  when  he  states 
8 


Cape  of  Storms 

that  a  woman  who  has  wit  enough  to  be 
beautiful  has  all  she  needs. 

Miss  Ware's  father  had  made  a  great 
deal  of  money  by  the  very  simple  process 
of  growing  old;  he  had  been  one  of  the 
pioneer  settlers  in  that  county  and  his 
had  been  most  of  the  land  that  the  vil 
lage  now  stood  on.  Miss  Ware  herself, 
while  sensible  of  her  riches,  was  un 
spoilt  by  them.  By  nature  she  was  of 
the  disposition  that  one  can  call  nothing 
else  but  ' 'sweet;"  she  was  tender  and 
gracious;  she  was  fond  of  fun,  so  long 
as  that  fun  annoyed  no  one  else;  in  a 
word,  she  was  considerate  ancl  gentle 
and  lovable.  She  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  south,  and  she  had  retained  a 
trace  of  the  southern  accent,  so  that  her 
speech  was  in  itself  a  charm;  she  had 
natural  talents  for  looking  pretty  under 
all  circumstances;  some  might  have  said 
that  she  had  the  instincts  of  a  coquette, 
but  I  do  not  believe  it  of  her.  She  was 
devoted  to  children  and  dumb  animals. 
And  whoso  has  those  instincts  is  intrin 
sically  good.  But  Miss  Ware  held  that 
she  had  by  no  means  had  enough  of  this 
world's  pleasures  to  begin  thinking  of 
so  solemn  a  thing  as  marriage.  Like  a 
large  number  of  the  girls  of  today,  she 
was,  first  and  foremost,  "out  for  a  good 
time,"  as  the  slang  of  the  time  has  it. 
She  had  certainly  the  intention  of  some 
day  marrying  the  man  she  loved  and 
making  him  as  happy  as  she  could;  but 
in  the  meanwhile  she  wanted  to  test  the 
world's  ability  to  furnish  entertainment 
quite  a  little  while  yet.  Which  was  why, 
although  she  was  very  fond  of  Dick,  she 


Cape  of  Storms 

had  invariably  put  him  off,  when  he 
grew  importunate,  with  a  laugh.  "Why, 
Dick,"  she  would  say,  "don't  you  know 
you're  absurd  to  think  of  such  a  thing  ? 
We're  just  children  yet.  Oh,  I  know 
we're  of  age,  but  what  of  that?  You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  think 
your  life  has  shaped,  or  even  begun  to 
shape  itself  yet  ?  No.  And  as  for  me,  I'm 
going  to  skirmish  around  a  while  yet  be 
fore  I  settle  down  and  become  old  mar 
ried  people!  Be  sensible,  Dick!  "  And 
Dick,  with  a  sigh  in  his  heart,  was,  per 
force,  fain  to  say  that  he  would  try. 
"Skirmish  around!  "  It  grated  on  him, 
somehow,  that  phrase;  it  seemed  to 
hold  for  him  visions  of  innumerable 
flirtations;  of  contact  with  the  world, 
the  flesh  and  the  devil,  with  the  brush 
ing  off  of  the  faint,  roseate  bloom  of 
innocence. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  Dick's  de 
parture  for  town  that  Lincolnville  re 
ceived  the  news  of  another  intended 
going  abroad.  The  Wares'  were 
to  sail  for  Euiope  before  the  month 
was  out.  Mrs.  Ware  had  long  been  an 
invalid;  for  years  the  doctors  had  ad 
vised  travel,  but  her  husband's  objec 
tions  to  any  sort  of  change  had  hitherto 
prevailed  against  her  wishes.  But  now 
the  really  dangerous  state  of  Mrs.  Ware's 
health,  added  to  the  entreaties  of  Dor 
othy,  who  longed,  as  do  all  American 
girls,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  old  country, 
had  brought  the  old  gentleman  to  acqui 
escence.  He  would  not  go  himself;  he 
was  getting  too  old  for  such  a  trip;  but 
his  wife  and  daughter  should  go,  if  they 
10 


Cape  of  Storms 

had  set  their  hearts  on  it.  So  that,  with 
the  prospective  departure  of  both  Rich 
ard  Lancaster  and  the  girl  that  rumor 
had  him  engaged  to,  the  tongues  of  the 
gossips  had  plenty  to  do  on  that  day. 
When  Dick  first  heard  the  news  about 
the  Wares'  he  was  inclined  to  be  down 
hearted;  then  it  struck  him  that  it  would 
give  him  an  opportuity  for  another  effort 
at  getting  from  Dorothy  at  least  the 
promise  of  a  promise. 

Than  Lincolnville  in  mid-summer  I 
know  few  fairer  places;  there  is  a  cool, 
green  quiet  all  about  that  makes  for 
peace  and  gentleness,  and  in  the  whis 
pering  of  the  breeze  as  it  curls  through 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  spreading  trees 
there  is  the  note  of  happiness.  Hap 
piness,  indeed,  lies  nearer  to  man  in  one 
of  these  small,  serene  villages,  than  any 
where  else  in  the  world,  save  in  solitude; 
but  it  is  rarely  that  man  sees  the  sleep 
ing  beauty  that  he  has  sought  all  his 
life  long.  Dick,  as  he  walked  along 
toward  the  Ware  house  that  splendid 
afternoon,  caught  something  of  the 
warm,  comfortable  languor  that  was  in 
the  air,  and  looked  about  him  with  a 
note  of  regret  in  his  regard.  "How 
pretty  it  all  is!"  he  thought,  looking  at 
the  familiar  houses,  with  their  well-kept 
lawns  and  ivy-covered  verandahs,  "how 
pretty!  And  yet — "  he  sighed,  and  then 
smiled  with  a  proud  lift  of  the  head — 
"there  are  other  things!  " 

He  found  Miss  Ware  seated  in  a  ham 
mock  on  what  was  known  as  the  front- 
porch.  It  was  a  long,  low,  cool  stretch 
of  verandah,  reminding  one  of  the  style 
ii 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  architecture  in  vogue  in  the  old  south. 
It  was  all  harbored  in  vines  that  were  so 
luxurious  they  hardly  gave  the  breeze  a 
fair  chance  to  penetrate;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  sun's  rays  were  safely  guarded 
against. 

Young  Lancaster  drew  up  a  chair, 
after  she  had  smiled  and  reached  him 
one  of  her  hands.  He  looked  at  her 
critically  for  a  moment. 

1  'Dorothy,"  he  said,  "I  have  never 
seen  you  looking  so  pretty." 

"I  have  never  felt  so  happy,  Dick," 
she  said. 

"Because  you  are  going  away?" 
;  "Yes.     And  you?" 

"I  am  happy,  too.  And  yet,  I  am 
rather  sorry.  I  have  lived  here  all  my 
life;  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  am  going 
away  from  home.  There  is  something 
solemn  about  it;  but  then — the  end,  oh, 
the  end — justifies  it  all.  That  is  not  the 
chief  reason  why  I  am  not  altogether 
satisfied  to  go  away.  Dorothy,  don't 
you  know  the  other  reason?  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  a  little,  and 
smiled  a  trifle  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  "I,  Dick,  why,  how  should  I 
know?  "  Then  she  saw  that  he  looked 
hurt  and  she  changed  her  tone.  '  'Dick, " 
she  went  on,  "why  won't  you  be  sen 
sible  about  it?  I  suppose  you  mean 
about  me?  Why,  Dick,  you  know  I 
like  you,  don't  you?  I've  always  liked 
you  and  admired  you,  but — dear  me, 
can  I  help  it  if  I  feel  sure  that  I  don't 
like  anyone  yet — in  that  way?  I'd  like 
to,  perhaps,  but — well,  I  don't.  What 

12 


Cape  of  Storms 

can  I  do?  "  She  looked  at  him  appeal- 
ingly  and  reproachfully. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  said,  soothingly, 
"I'm  an  impetuous,  thoughtless  idiot, 
I'm  afraid,  and  I  hurt  you.  And,  oh, 
Dorothy!  don't  you  know  I'd  rather 
surfer  torments  unspeakable  than  hurt 
you?"  He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched 
the  one  hand  of  hers  that  swung  beside 
him,  over  the  edge  of  the  hammock. 
"But  yet,  dear,"  he  went  on,  "if  I  only 
had  a  word  from  you  to  remember,  be  it 
ever  so  slight,  I  would  fight  so  much 
better  against  the  world.  For  it  is  the 
same  to-day  as  it  was  in  the  middle 
ages;  we  go  to  our  crusades,  all  of  us, 
and  if  we  have  a  sweetheart  who  will 
give  us  her  love  as  an  armor,  we  fight 
the  better  fight.  Our  crusades  have  a 
different  air,  to  be  sure,  but  the  idea  is 
the  same.  Don't  you  know,  Dorothy, 
that  if  you  only  gave  me  some  little 
thing  to  cling  to,  I  would  feel  a  hundred 
times  stronger.  Come,  Dorothy,  it 
costs  you  little  to  say  it!  " 

"But  if  I  say  that  word,  I  must  live 
up  to  it." 

"True;  your  fair  conscience  would  let 
you  do  nothing  less.  And  yet,  there  are 
words  so  slight  that  they  would  cost  you 
scarcely  anything,  while  to  me  they 
would  be  coats  of  mail." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,both  look 
ing  out  over  the  street  where  the  school 
children  were  passing  homewards.  A 
buggy  rattled  by,  throwing  clouds  of  dust; 
then  there  was  quiet  again.  "If  you  could 
say  to  me,  Dorothy,  'Dick,  I  won't 
marry  anyone  until  I  see  you  again,  un- 

13 


Cape  of  Storms 

til  I  come  home  again.  And  I'll  try  to 
like  you — that  way,'  why,  that  would  be 
enough  for  me." 

She  held  up  her  right  hand  with  a 
pretty  little  gesture.  "I  do  solemnly 
swear,"  she  said.  Then  she  went  on 
more  seriously,  "Why,  yes,  Dick,  I'll 
promise  that.  Small  chance  of  my 
getting  married  for  a  few  years,  anyway, 
so  I  won't  have  such  a  very  awful  time 
living  up  to  that  promise.  Now,  do  you 
think,  sir,  that  you're  engaged  to  me?" 

"No,  no,  dear;  not  at  all.  But  you've 
let  me  hope,  haven't  you?  That's  all  I 
want.  You  don't  know  how  much  hap 
pier  I'll  feel  all  the  time  you're  away. 
How  long,  by  the  way,  do  you  think 
you'll  be  abroad?" 

"A  year,  at  the  least.  I  want  to  see 
it  all,  you  know,  when  I  do  get  the 
chance.  Mamma'll  want  to  stay  in 
Carlsbad  or  Ems,  or  somewhere  all  the 
time;  but  I'm  going  to  get  her  well  real 
soon,  you  see  if  I  don't,  and  then  we'll 
just  travel  for  fun  and  nothing  else. 
Dick,  wouldn't  it  be  great  if  you  could 
go  along?" 

"It  would,  for  a  fact,"  he  assented, 
"but  it's  too  good  to  be  true.  Besides 
I'm  going  to  have  some  fun  of  my  own !  " 

"Your  work,  you  mean?  " 

"Yes.  Isn't  it  fun  to  succeed?  And 
I'm  going  to  succeed!  The  fighting  for 
success  will  be  fun,  and  the  victory  will 
be  fun!"  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce 
battle-light.  Today  this  fire  of  ambition 
is  the  only  thing  that  at  all  takes  the 
place  of  the  blood  fervor  that  spurred 
on  the  knights  of  the  olden  times. 
14 


Cape  of  Storms 

"Dorothy,"  he  said,  presently,  with  a 
sudden  softness  in  his  voice,"  « 'will  you 
wish  me  luck?" 

She  gave  him,  for  answer,  her  right 
hand,  and  looked  at  him  wistfully.  She 
was  wondering,  perhaps,  why  it  was  that 
she  did  not  love  this  lovable  boy.  "I 
wish  you  all  the  success  in  the  world," 
she  said  quietly.  And  then,  as  he 
turned  to  go,  she  called  after  him,  in  the 
old  formula  they  had  used  to  each  other 
a  thousand  times  as  boy  and  girl — 
"Good-bye,  Dick.  Be  good!" 

The  love  affairs  of  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
you  may  think,  are  hardly  the  things 
that  matter  very  much  in  the  world  of 
today.  But  the  boy  and  girl  of  today 
are  the  man  and  the  woman  of  tomor 
row;  and  between  these  stages  there  is 
only  the  little  gulf,  so  easily  crossed, 
wherein  runs  the  river  of  knowledge  of 
the  world  we  live  in.  As  soon  as  we 
have  crossed  that  we  are  become  men 
and  women,  and  are  left  of  our  childhood 
nothing  but  the  wish  that  it  were  ours 
again. 


CHAPTER    I 

Oi    LTHOUGH  the  western  windows 
/•X       were    open,    it     was    decidedly 
<^3        warm  in  the  offices  of  the  Weekly 
Torch.     The  offices  were  on  the  tenth 
floor  in  one  of  the  town's   best  known 
sky-scrapers  —  the  Aurora.     There  was  a 
view,  through  the  windows,  of  innumer 
able  roof  sand  streets;  here  and  there  the 
tower  of  a  railway  station  or  a  new  hotel 
15 


Cape  of  Storms 

protruded — in  the  words  of  A.  B.  Wooton 
owner  of  the  Torch — "like  a  sore  thumb." 
Mr.  Wooton  was  at  that  moment  engaged 
in  the  diverting  pastime  of  having  his 
feet  stretched  over  the  side  of  his  desk; 
and  watching  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette 
curl  out  of  the  window.  Besides  his 
own,  there  were  three  other  desks,  of 
the  roller-top  pattern,  in  the  room,  the 
door  of  which  was  marked  ''Editorial 
Rooms,"  but  was  rarely,  if  ever,  seen 
closed.  As  a  usual  thing  the  outer  door 
to  the  corridor  was,  in  the  summer-time 
at  least,  also  left  wide  open;  you  could 
see  -from  the  window  clear  to  the  outer 
door.  Indeed,  it  was  one  of  Wooten's 
special  talents,  this  ability  of  his  to  see 
at  a  glance,  from  his  seat  by  the  win 
dow,  who  it  was  that  was  coming  in 
through  the  farther  door.  At  one  of 
the  other  desks  a  man  was  smoking  a 
pipe  and  shoving  a  pencil  rapidly  over 
sheet  of  paper.  Presently  this  man 
laid  his  pencil  down,  took  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  knocked  the  ashes 
over  into  the  cuspidor.  Then  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  inquired, 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Young  fellow  from  the  Art  Institute," 
said  Wooten.  "Sketches  to  show; 
wants  to  do  illustrating;  same  old  gag. 
They  all  come  to  it.  Paint  and  fame 
come  altogether  too  high,  and  a  fel 
low's  got  to  live.  Although,  as  the 
Frenchman  remarked,  1J&  ne  vois  pahs 
la  necessite"  "  The  ability  to  hideously 
mispronounce  French  with  a  sort  of 
bravado  that  almost  made  it  seem  cor 
rect  was  one  of  Wooten's  peculiarities. 
16 


Cape  of  Storms 

The  other  man  gave  a  mock  shudder. 
"If  your  morals,"  he  said,  "were  as  bad 
as  your  French,  you  would't  be  fit  to 
print.  Was  his  stuff  any  good  ?" 

"Very  fair.  Got  a  thing  or  two  to 
learn  about  working  for  reproduction, 
as  all  these  art-school  men  have;  but 
he's  got  it  in  him.  I  told  him  to  go  and 
see  young  Belden,  on  the  Chronicle, 
to  get  a  few  points  about  reproduction. 
I  believe  I'll  be  able  to  use  him.  If 
he's  cheap."  Wooton  laughed,  and 
threw  the  stub  of  his  cigarette  out  of  the 
window.  Then  he  began  throwing  the 
papers  on  his  desk  all  in  a  heap  and 
looking  into,  under  and  around  them, 
"Confound  the  luck,"  he  began;  then, 
turning  to  the  other  man,  "Got  a 
cigarette,  Van  ?  " 

Van,  whose  full  name  was  Vanstruther, 
and  whom  his  intimates  called  alter 
nately  "Tom"  and  "Van,"  threw  a  box 
over  to  the  other's  desk,  laughing.  "I 
swear,"  he  said,  "it's  my  firm  belief 
that  if  a  man  were  to  put  you  in  a  story 
and  try  to  draw  you  with  a  single  stroke 
he  would  only  have  to  say  that  you 
spent  your  life  between  buying  and 
losing  cigarettes." 

"And  matches,"  added  the  other 
calmly.  "Got  one?" 

"Jupiter!  If  this  thing  goes  on  I'm 
going  to  strike  for  higher  rates,  It's 
not  in  the  contract  that  I  furnish  the 
office  with  smokes!" 

"No.  But  the  stuff  you  write,  Van, 
is  what  drives  me  to  cigarettes.  So  you 
make  your  own  bed,  you  see.  Hallo! 
17 


Cape  of  Storms 

Here's  alone  female  to  see  me!  Won 
der  who  ? 

He  got  up  and  went  towards  the  door. 
"Did  you  wish  to  see  me?"  he  inquired. 

"The  editor?"  She  hesitated  a  little 
but  he  assured  her  with  a  slight  nod  that 
she  had  found  her  man,  and  she  fol 
lowed  him  towards  his  desk.  She  took  a 
seat  beside  him,  and  they  began  convers 
ing  in  a  tone  so  low  that  Vanstruther 
could  only  catch  a  stray  word  now  and 
again.  Presently  she  got  up.  "Very 
well  then,"  she  was  saying,  "you  have 
my  address;  if  anything  should  turn  up, 
you  will  let  me  know,  won't  you?" 
With  a  little  rustling  of  skirts  she  was 
gone.  Presently  they  could  here  her 
voice  saying  "Down!"  to  the  elevator 
boy. 

"What  was  her  game?"  asked  Van 
struther. 

"Wanted  to  contribute  poetry  as  a 
regular  department.  You  can't  fling  a 
club  around  a  corner  anywhere  in  this 
town  without  hitting  one  of  her  kind, 
nowadays!" 

"Then  why  didn't  you  tell  her  right 
away  you  weren't  using  anything  of  that 
sort?" 

"Why,  you  infernal  idiot,  didn't  you 
look  at  her?" 

"No.     Choice?" 

"Very.\"  He  put  a  slip  of  paper  into 
a  pigeon  hole,  remarking  as  he  did  so, 
"Filed  for  future  reference." 

From  the  next  room  came  a  gruff 
voice,  "Column  of  editorial  to  fill  yet, 
Mr.  Wooton." 

"That  foreman  of  mine's  like  Ban- 
18 


Cape  of  Storms 

quo's  ghost,"  muttered  Wooton,  as  he 
put  his  pen  into  the  ink  and  bent  down 
over  the  desk.  For  a  while  there  was 
only  the  sound  of  pen  and  pencil  going 
over  paper,  and  the  click  of  the  type  in 
the  next  room.  Then  there  was  a  heavy 
step  heard  in  the  passage  outside,  and 
presently  Wooton  muttered:  .  "The 
Lord's  giving  us  this  day  our  daily  loafers, 
I  see.  I  wonder  why  it  is,"  he  went  on 
aloud,  as  a  tall,  heavy-set  man,  with  a 
military  mustache  and  eyeglasses  in 
front  of  mild  blue  eyes,  came  into  the 
room,  "that  you  fellows  always  show  up 
on  Friday.  Which,  being  the  day  we  go 
to  press — what's  that?  More  copy?  Oh, 
all  right!  "  The  foreman  was  taking  all 
the  written  sheets  from  his  desk*  and 
pleading  for  more.  The  new  comer  was 
evidently  used  to  this  sort  of  greeting; 
he  calmly  picked  a  cigarette  from  the 
box  on  Vanstruther's  desk,  lit  it  and  sat 
down  on  a  chair  that  was  drawn  up  to 
the  table-where  the  "exchanges"  lay  piled 
in  heaps.  He  fina^y  found  what  he  had 
been  apparently  looking  for — a  paper 
with  a  very  gaudy  and  risky  picture  on 
the  front  of  the  cover;  he  folded  it  to  his 
satisfaction  and  began  to  look  through 
it.  "Say,  Van,"  he  began,  presently, 
"what's  this  I  hear  about  their  going  to 
play  the  Ober-Ammergau  Passion  Play 
here?  Anything  in  it?  " 

Vanstruther  was  terribly  busy. 
"Haven't  heard,"  was  all  he  said. 

"I  heard  that  it  was  all  fixed,"  the 
other  went  on.  "They've  even  got  the 
man  to  play  the  leading  part.  Fellow 
called  Tom  Vanstruther.  They  say  he's 

19 


Cape  of  Storms 

going  to  play  the  part  without  a  make 
up,  and — " 

"Oh,  look  here,"  said  Vanstruther, 
half  turning  around  in  his  chair,  "you 
go  to  the  devil,  will  you?  " 

The  other  man  took  out  a  huge  cigar- 
holder,  inserted  his  cigarette  and  curled 
his  mustache.  "Van's  still  a  little  sore 
about  that,"  he  said,  turning  to  Wooton, 
who  merely  nodded  his  head.  There 
came  again  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the 
outer  hall,  and  Wooton,  peering  forward 
a  little,  broke  into  a  cheery  "Hallo, 
Dante  Gabriel  Belden,  glad  to  see  you! 
Come  in.  By  the  way,  I  just  sent  a 
young  fellow  who  has  your  disease  over 
to  see  you  this  morning.  Wants  to 
learn  the  reproduction  rules  of  the 
game.  See  him?" 

"Yes.  Had  a  little  talk  with  him. 
Clever  chap.  Tell  you  about  him  in  a 
minute.  Hallo,  Van,  how  are  the  other 
three  hundred  and  ninety-nine?  Hallo, 
Stanley,  haven't  they  got  you  under  the 
vagrancy  ordinance  yet?  " 

The  man  with  the  huge  mustache 
and  the  lengthy  cigar-holder  shook  his 
head  and  said,  "Not  yet.  But  I  under 
stand  they're  on  the  trail.  Well,  how  is 
Art,  and  what  are  the  books  you  have 
lately  bought,  and  what  is  the  latest  of 
your  schemes  that  has  died?  " 

"Oh,  give  them  to  me  one  at  a  time. 
Hang  it,  Wooton,  why  do  you  allow  this 
man  to  come  up  here,  anyway,  to  wear 
out  your  furniture  and  the  patience  of 
us  all?" 

"Oh,"  said  Wooton,  "he's  an  amusing 
20 


Cape  of  Storms 

animal,  and  I  forgive  any  man  anything 
if  only  he  will  amuse  me." 

< 'That's  beastly  bad  morals!"  said 
the  artist. 

"Morals!"  echoed  Wooton,  with  a 
bland  smile,  "my  dear  boy,  you  want  to 
take  a  pill.  No;  take  two!  Morals  in 
this  day  and  age;  moreover,  on  the 
borders  of  Bohemia,  to  talk  about  mor 
als!  Jove,  I  see  myself  forced  to  seek 
the  solace  of  the  deadly  cigarette." 
He  lit  one  of  those  slender  rolls  of 
tobacco  and  paper  and  went  on,  "How 
ever  you  haven't  answered  Stanley's 
questions  yet.  For  you  must  know, 
Van,  that  Belden  is  one  of  the  most  ex 
travagant  and  insatiable  hunters  of  art 
books  in  all  this  town.  Ever  been  in 
his  flat?  Well,  it's  a  series  of  rooms, 
completely  lined  with  books  and  pic 
tures,  with  a  very  small  hole  in  the 
middle  of  each  room.  Said  hole  being 
usually  filled — to  use  an  Irishism — with 
a  center-table  loaded  to  the  guards  with 
art  portfolios.  I  don't  believe  there's  a 
book  or  art  store  in  town  that  the  man 
doen't  owe  large  bills  to;  and  I  know, 
for  a  fact,  that  when  it  comes  to  be  a 
question  between  a  new  overcoat  and  a 
new  art  book,  he  always  takes  the  lat 
ter.  And  as  for  his  schemes — well,  I 
will  admit  they're  all  good,  but,  like  the 
good,  they  die  young.  While  they  have 
the  merit  of  exceeding  novelty,  they 
ride  him  like  the  plague;  but  presently 
a  new  idol  comes  and  the  old  one  falls 
into  decay.  Tell  us,  Dante,  about  the 
newest  scheme!  " 

"H'm,"  replied  the  artist,  "I  don't 
21 


Cape  of  Storms 

see  that  you've  left  me  anything  to  tell. 
I've  got  a  new  book  of  Vierge's  stuff  that 
you  fellows  want  to  come  up  and  see 
one  of  these  days;  that's  about  all  that 
I  can  think  of." 

"Thank  you  for  the  pressing  invita 
tion,"  said  Wooton. 

"Oh,  and  about  that  fellow  you  sent 
up  to  see  me,"  Belden  continued,  "I 
liked  his  stuff  immensely.  He  needs  a 
little  experience  and  hard  luck  on  the 
practical  side  of  getting  his  stuff  made 
into  cuts,  and  he'll  be  all  right.  The 
fact  is,  Wooton,  seeing  you  like  the  fel 
low's  sketches  fairly  well,  and  I'm  rushed 
to  death  with  other  work,  I've  thought 
of  turning  my  work  for  the  Torch  over  to 
him.  Would  you  object?  " 

"Not  a  bit,  provided  he  does  it  as 
well;  and  he  won't  have  to  get  much  of 
a  move  on  to  do  that.  And  then  they're 
cheaper  when  they're  green!  " 

Belden  groaned.  "You're  the  most 
awful  specimen  of  materialism  I  ever 
hope  to  run  up  against.  Then  you 
don't  object  to  this  fellow — what's  his 
name  again,  Lancaster,  isn't  it? — doing 
your  sketches?  All  right,  I'll  train  him 
a  bit  for  you.  And  then  I  guess  it 
would  be  a  good  scheme  for  him  to  have 
a  desk  here  in  your  office  somewhere,  so 
that  he  can  have  a  workshop  and  be 
right  at  hand  for  you.  It  isn't  as  if  he 
had  a  studio  of  his  own." 

"That'll  be  all  right;  we've  got  plenty 
of  room.  But  while  you're  training 
him,  old  man,  I  hope  you  won't  inocu 
late  him  with  that  villainous  style  of 
dressing  you  adopt  at  the  end  of  your 
22 


Cape  of  Storms 

pen.  You're  very  hot  people  on 
everything  that's  got  to  be  done  in  a 
hurry,  and  you're  great  on  fine  work  of 
the  etching  order,  but  when  it  comes 
to  making  people  look  like  the  men  and 
women  one  would  care  to  be  seen  with, 
you're  simply  not  in  this  county,  that's 
all  there  is  about  it.  I've  always 
claimed,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  turn 
ing  a  little  so  that  he  faced  Vanstruther 
and  Stanley,  "that  the  great  fault  com 
mon  to  all  the  black-and-white  artists 
in  this  town  was  that  they  couldn't 
define  the  difference  between  a  gentle 
man  and  a  hoodlum.  They  talk  to  me 
about  technique,  and  drawing,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  none  of  which,  I  will 
admit,  I  know  a  mortal  thing  about; 
but  all  I  answer  is  that  I'm  going  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  man  who 
doesn't  know  how  the  drawing  is  made, 
but  who  does  know  how  it  looks  when 
it's  finished.  The  people  of  today  look 
at  nearly  everything  for  it's  merely 
superficial  aspect;  and  the  finer  people 
look  to  our  artists  to  display  taste  in 
clothing  their  pictorial  creatures.  If 
you  only  dress  your  people  well,  they'll 
want  your  drawings  so  that  they  can 
get  fashion  pointers  from  them.  Now- 
a-days  an  illustrator  has  got  to  be  more 
than  a  mere  manipulator  of  pen  and 
ink;  he  has  got  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
fashions,  and  even  a  little  ahead  of  them. 
At  least,  that's  what  the  man  I'm  look 
ing  for  should  be." 

Stanley  muttered,  around  the  edges  of 
his  mustache,  so  that   only  Vanstruther 
could  hear,  "Yes;  and  he'd  want  to  pay 
23 


Cape  of  Storms 

him  as  much  as  ten  dollars  a  week!" 

Belden  laughed,  and  got  up.  "Why 
don't  you  put  all  that  into  a  lecture, 
Wooton,  and  give  the  fellows  over  at 
the  Institute  a  glimpse  of  this  higher 
knowledge  of  yours.  However,  I've  got 
to  be  going.  I'll  send  that  man  Lancas 
ter  over  here  in  a  day  or  so.  Goodbye, 
people!" 

'  'There's  one  of  the  cleverest  fellows 
with  a  pen  in  this  town,"  said  Wooten, 
as  soon  as  the  artist's  footsteps  had  died 
away  down  the  corridor,  "but  he's  utterly 
spoiled  himself  by  the  work  he's  been 
doing  of  late  years.  He's  a  very  fast 
worker,  and  one  of  the  best  men  a  daily 
paper  ever  got  hold  of.  Then,  too,  I've 
seen  copy-work  of  his — that  is,  from 
photographs  or  paintings — done  in  pen- 
and-ink,  that  had  all  the  fine  detail  and 
effect  of  an  etching.  But,  for  the  sake 
of  the  money  there  is  in  it,  he  does 
blood  and  thunder  illustrations  for  a 
paper  of  that  sort.  After  a  man  has 
done  that  sort  of  thing  for  a  year  or  two, 
it  gets  into  his  style.  I  don't  believe 
he'll  ever  be  able  to  do  anything  else, 
now.  Of  course,  he'll  aways  make  good 
money,  because  his  speed  and  capacity 
for  work  are  simply  invaluable;  but  art, 
as  far  as  he  is  concerned,  must  be  weep 
ing  large  salty  rears." 

"This  picture  of  you,  A.  B.  Wooton, 
pleading  the  cause  of  art,"  remarked 
Stanley,  "is  one  of  the  most  affecting  I 
have  ever  beheld.  It  really  makes  me 
feel — hungry." 

"Your  invitation,  sir,"  said  Wooton, 
walking  over  toward  the  closet  and 
24 


Cape  of  Storms 

getting  his  hat,  "is  cordially  accepted. 
Come  on,  Van;  we  are  invited  to  lunch 
by  the  Honorable  Mr.  Stanley,  exchange 
reader  to  the  Torch.  Never  linger  in  a 
case  like  this!" 

"For  consummate  nerve,"  Stanley 
suggested,  "you  really  take  the  medal, 
A.  B.  However,  seeing  I  made  a  little 
borrow  from  the  old  lady  yesterday,  I 
will  go  you  one  lunch  on  the  strength  of 
it.  But  I  do  hope  you  men  had  late 
breakfasts." 

Just  before  they  were  ready  to  pass 
out,  Tony,  the  office  boy  came  in. 
"Say,"  he  said  to  Wooton,  in  a  low 
tone,  "you  remember  that  letter  I  took 
to  the  house  day  before  yesterday? 
Well,  does  the  quarter  walk  to-day?" 

"Which,"  Wooton  explained,  as  he 
handed  the  boy  a  quarter,  "is  Tony's 
peculiar  way  of  inquiring  whether  he  is 
going  to  get  that  twenty-five  cents  or 
not."  Tony  grinned  and  went  back  to 
his  desk  were  he  was  busy  addressing 
wrappers. 

When  the  three  men  came  back  from 
lunch,  they  found  a  young  man,  holding 
a  black  leather  case  in  his  hand,  such 
as  bank  messengers  carry,  sitting 
patiently  in  a  chair  in  the  outer  office. 
He  got  up  when  they  entered,  and 
handed  Wooton  a  paper.  Wooton  took 
it  to  the  light,  read  it  slowly,  and 
handed  it  back.  "Tell  him  to  s?nd  that 
around  again  on  the  tenth,  will  you." 
Then  he  walked  into  the  composing 
room  and  began  talking  to  the  foreman. 
The  collector  put  the  slip  of  paper  back 
into  his  portfolio  and  went  out. 
25 


Cape  of  Storms 

"Van,"  said  Wooton,  as  they  sat 
down  at  his  desk,  presently,  "I  wish 
you'd  try  and  hurry  that  stuff  of  yours 
along  a  little,  wiJl  you?  I've  got  to  go 
to  a  tea  at  Mrs.  Stewart's  at  four,  and 
the  ghost  tells  me  that  your  page  is 
half  a  column  shy  yet." 

Vanstruther  nodded  silently,  while 
Stanley  inquired,  "Excuse  my  ignorance 
Mr.  Wooten,  but  who  is  Mrs.  Stewart?" 

"What?  You  don't  know  the  great 
and  only  Annie  McCallum  Stewart?  Oh, 
misericordia,  can  such  things  be?" 

"They  are." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Stewart  is  a  remarkably 
clever  woman.  One  of  the  cleverest 
women  our  society  affords,  in  fact.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  town's  best 
known  and  most  popular  doctors,  and 
everyone  in  society  knew  her  so  well 
when  she  was  only  Annie  McCallum  that 
now,  when  she  is  married  to  Stewart, 
one  still  uses  her  old  name  as  well  as  her 
new  one.  That's  all  the  result  of  indi 
viduality.  She  has  read  a  great  deal, 
and  kept  her  eyes  open  a  great  deal.  She 
has  a  husband  who  is  ridiculously  fond 
of  her,  and  otherwise  as  blind  as  a  bat. 
She,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  mania  for 
young  men.  Whenever  you  see  her  with 
a  young  man  of  any  sort  of  looks,  some 
body  will  tell  you  that  Annie  McCallum 
Stewart  has  got  a  new  youth  in  the  net. 
She  likes  to  lure  them  up  into  her  <den,' 
as  she  calls  it,  and  talk  to  them  about 
the  higher  life.  Then  they  fall  in  love 
with  her  and  she  forgives  them  and 
elaborates  upon  the  beauties  of  pure 
Platonism.  In  a  word,  Stanley,  she's 
26 


Cape  of  Storms 

one  of  the  most  perfect  forms   of   the 
mental  flirt  I  ever  come  across." 

"H'm.  Is  your  tea  today  to  be  in 
duet  form,  or  is  it  a  general  scramble?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  general  all-comers'  game. 
But  I  always  like  to  go  to  that  house; 
she  interests  me  immensely.  I'm  always 
wondering  how  near  she  really  can  skate 
to  the  edge  without  breaking  over." 

"Yes,"  acquiesced  the  other,  reflec 
tively,  "that  is  an  interesting  specula 
tion.  Hallo,  here's  another  friend  of 
yours!" 

The  new-comer  laid  an  envelope  on 
Wooton's  desk  and  waited.  The  latter 
opened  it  hastily,  and  then  said,  "I  sent 
that  down  by  this  morning's  mail." 

The  man  had  hardly  gone  before  Stan 
ley  laid  down  the  paper  he  had  been 
paging  through  and  said,  looking  stead 
ily  at  Wooton,  "Jupiter,  but  you  do  that 
easily!  If  I  could  do  that  only  half  as 
well  I'd  count  myself  as  free  from  debts 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  It's  my  solemn 
belief  that  you  can  tell  a  collector  from 
an  ordinary  mortal  as  soon  as  he  steps 
inside  the  door.  I've  heard  you  tell  a 
man,  who  had  only  just  turned  inside 
the  outer  office,  that  you  were  'going  to 
send  that  down  in  the  morning,'  and  I've 
seen  you  look  the  enemy  calmly  in  the 
face  and  tell  him  that  you  had  fixed  that 
up  with  his  employer  about  an  hour  ago. 
And  you  do  it  as  easily  as  if  you  were 
lighting  a  cigarette.  Another  man  might 
get  embarrassed,  and  hesitate,  or  feel 
guilty!  But  you!  Not  in  a  hundred  years! 
You  never  quail  worth  a  cent.  It's  posi 
tive  genius,  my  boy,  positive  genius!" 
27 


Cape  of  Storms 

"No;  it's  only  business,  that's  all." 

"H'm,  by  the  way,  speaking  of  busi 
ness,  aren't  you  running  the  game  a  trifle 
extravagantly  here  ?  I  don't  want  to  mix 
in,  of  course,  but  is  the  thing  paying  so 
well  as — " 

The  other  interrupted  him.  <  'My  dear 
fellow, "  he  said,  "it's  evident  you  haven't 
any  idea  how  well  this  thing  is  paying. 
Why,  man,  look  at  me!  Do  I  econo 
mise  much?  No.  Well,  I  don't  have 
to,  that's  why!  But  come  on  and  let's 
saunter  down  street.  Van's  finished, 
and  they've  got  all  the  copy  they  want, 
and  I  expect  there  are  a  few  pretty  girls 
out  today.  Let's  go  and  take  a  glimpse 
at  the  parade  on  the  Avenue.  And  then 
I'll  go  down  to  that  tea." 

There  were  several  callers  at  the  office 
after  they  had  left;  some  bill-collectors, 
a  society  man  who  left  the  announce 
ment  for  some  forthcoming  dances;  a 
boy  to  buy  ten  copies  of  last  week's  pa 
per;  a  printer  looking  for  work;  and  the 
mail-carrier.  Towards  six  o'clock  the 
foreman  and  the  compositors  left;  then 
Tony,  the  office-boy,  shut  up  his  desk, 
and  went  out,  locking  the  door  behind 
him.  The  Weekly  Torch  had  gone  to 
rest  for  the  day. 


CHAPTER    II 

C^T  N  the  very    air  and  life    that    pre- 

j\     vailed  in  the  office    of   the   Torch 

<^5     there  was,  as  one  may   suppose, 

something  strange,  and  at  first  repugnant 

to  Dick  Lancaster.  To  one  of  his  bringing 

28 


Cape  of  Storms 

up,  his  earnest  intentions,  his  thirst  for 
real  things,  it  seemed  that  all  this  was  very 
like  a  gaudy  sham,  a  bubble  of  pretense, 
of  surface  prattle.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  that  the  flippancy  of  these  men 
was  serious  with  them;  their  talk,  their 
point  of  view  astonished  and  horrified 
him.  If  they  were  to  be  believed,  life 
was  nothing  but  a  skimming  of  more  or 
less  uneven  surfaces;  the  only  thing  to 
be  tried  for  was  pleasure,  and  there  was 
no  moral  line  at  all.  And  then  again  he 
rebuked  himself  for  being,  perhaps,  a 
homesick  young  idiot,  overgiven  to  mor 
bid  speculation.  That  was  not  what  he 
had  come  to  town  for;  he  was  going  to 
do  some  good  work  and  make  a  name 
and  fame  for  himself. 

He  had  found,  very  early  in  his  career, 
that  in  order  to  get  upon  the  first  steps 
of  the  ladder  he  must  become  an  illus 
trator.  If  he  had  had  the  means  that 
would  have  enabled  him  to  wait  through 
studio-work,  a  trip  to  Paris,  and  the 
dreary  years  ere  orders  came  from  deal 
ers,  he  would  have  clung  to  paint  at  any 
risk;  but  he  saw  himself  forced  to  earn 
some  bread-and-butter  even  while  he 
waited  for  his  dreams  to  come  true.  So, 
with  some  slight  reluctance  at  first,  to  be 
sure,  but  afterwards  with  all  his  energy, 
he  applied  himself  to  pen  and  ink  work. 
In  course  of  time,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
became  the  staff-artist  of  the  Torch. 
He  was  making  a  very  fair  living  for  so 
young  a  man,  and  he  made  a  great  many 
acquaintances.  And  life  every  day 
showed  him  a  new  aspect. 

One  of  the  men  he  had  so  far  taken 
29 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  greatest  liking  to  was  Belden,  the 
artist,  who  had,  to  all  intents  and  pur 
poses,  put  him  into  his  present  position 
with  the  Torch.  Belden,  whose  name 
was  Daniel  Grant  Belden,  but  whom 
his  friends  chaffingly  called,  on  account 
of  the  similarity  of  the  initials,  Dante 
Gabriel,  was  one  of  the  -  most  happy- 
go-lucky  individuals  that  ever  breathed. 
His  mania  for  art  books  kept  him 
more  or  less  hard-up;  yet  he  un 
doubtedly  had  one  of  the  finest 
collections,  in  that  sort,  in  town. 
He  got  orders  for  work  from  a  publisher; 
he  took  the  manuscript  that  he  was  to 
illustrate  home  with  him;  he  kept  it 
three  weeks;  then,  without  having  read 
it,  he  returned  it  saying  he  was  too  busy 
to  attempt  the  commission.  And  if 
ever  there  was  one  in  this  present  day 
of  ours,  he  was  a  Bohemian.  The 
peculiar  part  of  it  was  that  in  addition 
to  being  a  Bohemian  by  instinct,  he  was 
one  *  by  intention.  He  read  Henri 
Murger  with  avidity,  and  thought  of 
him  always.  On  the  street  he  was  a 
curious  object;  his  overcoat  was  a  trifle 
shiny,  and  his  hat  was  always  an  old, 
or  at  least,  a  misused  one;  his  trousers 
were  too  tight  at  the  knees;  his  boots 
rarely  polished.  He  usually  walked 
with  a  long,  quick  stride;  and  a  long, 
peculiar  cigar,  of  the  sort  the  Wheeling 
people  call  "stogy,"  was  almost  always 
in  his  mouth.  You  rarely  saw  him  on 
the  Elevated  except  with  an  armful  of 
books  and  papers.  He  would  come 
home  at  one  in  the  morning  and  sit 
down  at  his  wide  drawing  table  and  work 

30 


Cape  of  Storms 

until  dawn.  Then,  with  not  much  more 
than  his  coat  hastily  thrown  off,  he  would 
fling  himself  on  the  couch  and  be  fast 
asleep  in  an  instant.  Often,  too,  he 
would  go  fast  to  sleep  while  his  pen  was 
traveling  over  the  paper;  in  ten  minutes, 
or  sometimes  half  an  hour,  he  would 
wake  up  and  continue  the  stroke  that 
had  been  interrupted;  his  pen  would 
have  not  spilled  a  single  drop.  He  did 
all  his  own  cooking,  and  marvelous  were 
the  meals  that  resulted.  He  liked  noth 
ing  better  than  to  fill  his  rooms  with  a 
number  of  choice,  congenial  souls. 
They  would  talk  art-shop  for  hours,  or 
listen  to  music;  he  knew  a  great  many 
clever  young  fellows  who  were  gifted  in 
playing  the  piano, the  flute  or  the  violin; 
and  while  his  own  musical  tastes  were 
barbaric,  and  called,  chiefly,  for  the 
spirited  rendition  of  darky-minstrelsies, 
he  gave  the  rest  of  his  company  the 
freedom  of  their  choice,  also,  and  sat 
patiently  through  the  most  beautiful  of 
operatic  strains.  Sunday  was  the  day 
singled  out  more  especially  for  those 
pleasant  little  "evenings"  at  Belden's 
flat. 

Dick  Lancaster  had  been  asked  up  to 
these  evenings  a  great  many  times 
before  he  ever  went.  For  long,  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  it;  in  spite  of 
all  the  thousand  and  one  laxities  that  he 
saw  in  the  daily  life  around  him,  to 
devote  oneself  to  anything  in  the  nature 
of  sheer  pleasure,  on  Sunday,  still 
seemed  to  him  a  decided  mis-step. 

But  one  day,  toward  the  beginning  of 
winter,  Belden,  who  had  been  in  to  call 


Cape  of  Storms 

on    his   young   protegee    at  the    Torch 
office,  said  to  him, 

''Look   here,    Dick,    why   don't   you 
come   up   some   Sunday     evening    and 
join    our   gang?     Goodness,    you   can't 
afford    to    be    as    straight-laced    as    all 
that,    in  this  town.     Besides,  we  don't 
do    anything    that's     against     the    law 
and    the     prophets,    you    know.       We 
talk  a  little  shop,  and  some  man  reads 
something,  perhaps,  and   Stanley  plays 
a  thing  or  two  on  the  violin.     Then  we 
go  out  and  help  ourselves  to  whatever  I 
may  happen  to  have  in  the  larder.     And 
then    you   go    home,   or   you   bunk   up 
there,   and    where's    the     harm    done? 
Look  at  it  sensibly,   my  boy;  we  are  all 
slaves  in    the    same    bondage,    in  this 
town,   and  Sunday  is  our   one   off-day; 
you  don't  mean  to   say   we're   heathens 
and  creatures  of  the  devil  if  we  seek  the 
sweetest  rest  we   can  on  that  day?     To 
some  men,    rest   means  church;    to  me 
and    most   of   the  men    you    know,    it 
means  relaxation,  and  relaxation  means 
recreation.     The  others  get  their  music 
in  church,  I  get  mine   at  home.     Now, 
Dick,  say  you'll  come  up  next  Sunday." 
And  Dick,  looking  at   Belden  as  if  to 
make  out  whether  that   artist   were  an 
emissary  of  the  Evil  One  or  merely  a 
man    of    the    present    day,    coughed  a 
little,  and  then   said,  rather  sheepishly, 
''Very   well,    I'll  come — to    please  you, 
Belden."     He  felt,  the  next   minute,   as 
if  he  had  slipped  and  fallen;  he  grew  a 
little  faint;    he    thought   he  could   hear 
the  sound  of  the  church  bells    as   they 
used  to  come  singing  over  the  meadows 
32 


Cape  of  Storms 

in  Lincolnville;  he  saw  himself  and  his 
mother  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  old 
pew,  listening  to  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Mr.  Fairly  droning  out  his  prayer;  then 
he  shook  himself  together  and  blushed 
at  his  fancies.  Belden  had  gone  already, 
but  Dick  felt  as  if  he  would  run  after  him 
and  tell  him,  "No,  no,  I  cannot,  must 
not  come!"  He  ran  to  the  door;  the 
corridor  was  empty;  Belden  was  half 
way  down  the  next  block  by  this  time. 
Then  he  solaced  himself  with  the 
thought,  "Surely  it  can  be  no  great 
harm  after  all  —  besides,  I  have 
promised!" 

He  bent  down  over  the  drawing-board 
once  more,  but  he  could  no  longer  chain 
his    thoughts  to    the  work    before  him. 
They  flew  round  and  round  in  a  curious 
circling  way  about    this  new  life  that  he 
had  become  a  part   of.     It  was,  he  was 
forced  to  admit  tohimself,not  as  beauti 
ful    a  thing  as   he  had   expected;    but  it 
was  certainly   novel,    and  it  interested 
him    immensely,    it  kept    his    curiosity 
excited,    it   touched  his   senses.     As  he 
began    to  consider  that   quiet    country 
village  that  he  had  left,  out  yonder  on 
the  plains,  and  this   busy  beehive  of  a 
metropolis,  he  came,    also,   to  consider 
the  men  he  was  beginning  to  know.   He 
leaned    back   in    the    chair,    smiling    a 
little.     The  office   was   nearly  empty  at 
this  time;  it  was   during  the  noon  hour, 
and  Dick  was  alone  in  the    outer   office! 
He   passed  over,   in  his  thoughts,    the 
men    that    he   was    thrown  with  in  the 
Torch     office.        There     was     Wooton 
himself:  tall,  thin,  with  a  face   that  was 
33 


Cape  of  Storms 

all  profile — a  wonderfully  pure  profile — 
with  a  mouth  almost  too  small  for  a 
man,  a  nose  that  bent  a  little  like  those 
of  the  Caesars.  Dick  did  not  know, 
yet,  what  to  make  of  Wooton.  The 
man  had  a  wonderful  charm;  he  could 
talk  most  entertainingly,  most  logically 
and  he  had  some  curiously  interesting 
theories.  There  was  a  sort  of  laisser- 
aller  negligence  in  his  manner;  his 
manners  were  admirable,  and  there  was 
some  occult  fascination  about  him  that 
one  could  scarcely  define.  As  Dick 
considered  him,  he  remembered  that  on 
several  occasions,  he  had  listened  to 
Wooton's  dissertations  on  subjects  that 
otherwise  would  have  offended  him, 
merely  because  the  man's  charm  of  per 
son  and  speech  were  so  alluring.  As  to 
whether  it  was  genuine  or  a  mere 
veneer,  well,  how  could  one  tell  as  soon 
as  this?  Time,  which  tells  so  many 
things,  would  doubtless  tell  that  too. 

Then  Vanstruther!  He  had  a  blonde 
beard  that  came  to  a  point,  and  he 
always  wore  glasses.  For  the  rest, 
Dick  knew  but  little  of  him  save  what 
he  had  heard.  Vanstruther  "did"  the 
more  important  of  the  society  events 
for  the  Torch,  and  himself  moved  and 
had  his  nightly  being  in  the  smartest 
circles  in  town.  The  peculiar  part  of  it 
was  that  he  was  married,  and  had 
several  children;  barring  the  hour  or  so 
a  day  that  he  spent  in  the  office  of  the 
Torch  he  was  the  most  devoted 
husband  and  father  in  the  world,  and 
spent  the  most  of  his  day  at  home, 
where  in  his  little  study-room  he  sat  in 
34 


Cape  of  Storms 

front  of  a  typewriter  stand  and  manu 
factured  at  lightning  speed — what  do 
you  suppose? — dime  novels.  This  was, 
among  the  man's  intimates,  a  more  or 
less  open  secret;  but  to  the  world  at 
large,  and  particularly  the  world  of 
society,  he  was  known  merely  as  a 
delightful  person,  socially,  and  some 
thing  of  a  flaneur,  intellectually. 

As  for  Stanley — the  man's  full  name 
was  Laurence  Stanley — Dick  had  some 
how  taken  a  dislike  to  him.  He  knew 
little  of  him  except  that  he  was  a  pro 
fessional  do-nothing,  who  lived  off  his 
wife's  money,  speculated  occasionally, 
and  appeared  a  great  deal  in  society.  No 
one  ever  saw  his  wife,  who  was  an  in 
valid.  He  talked  with  inveterate  cyni 
cism;  it  was  this  that  made  him  repug 
nant  to  young  Lancaster.  He  had  a 
sneer  and  a  cigarette  always  with  him, 
and  Dick  hated  both. 

The  tip-tapping  of  a  light  foot-step 
over  the  oil-cloth  brought  Dick  back 
from  the  land  of  day-dreams.  It  was 
rather  a  pretty  woman  that  stood  before 
him,  and  she  was  gowned  in  a  manner 
that  even  with  his  inexperience  he  knew 
to  be  distinctly  up-to-date,  and  that  he 
certainly  admitted  as  attractive  from  an 
artistic  standpoint.  She  looked  past 
him  into  the  inner  office,  lifted  her  eye 
brows  a  trifle  and  inquired:  "Is  Mr. 
Wooton  not  in?" 

''Not  just  now,"  responded  Dick,  get 
ting  up,  "but  he  will  be  back  in  a  very 
little  while.  If  you  would  care  to 
wait—  '  He  took  hold  of  the  back  of  a 
revolving  chair  that  stood  close  by. 
35 


Cape  of  Storms 

"No,"  she  declared,  "I  only  had  a 
minute.  Will  you  tell  him  Mrs.  Stewart 
was  up?  Or,  stay;  I'll  write  him  a  line." 

Dick  gave  her  some  letterheads,  and 
pen  and  ink;  she  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  began  writing,  with  a  good  deal  of 
scratching  and  scraping.  "There,"  she 
said  when  she  had  addressed  the  envel 
ope,  "If  you  will  please  give  him  that 
as  soon  as  he  comes  in.  Thank  you. 
Do  you  do  this?"  She  pointed  with  one 
gloved  finger  to  the  drawing  he  had  been 
busy  on.  He  bowed  silently.  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  quick,  comprehen 
sive  glance,  smiled  a  trifle,  and  swept 
out  of  the  door. 

"So  that  is  Mrs.  Annie  McCallum 
Stewart!"  was  Dick's  first  mental  excla 
mation,  "well,  she's  certainly  not  an  or 
dinary  woman.  Wonder  if  I'll  ever  get 
to  know  her?" 

With  which  speculation  he  turned  to 
his  work.  When  Wooton  returned,  and 
had  read  the  note,  he  broke  into  a  low 
chuckle,  "That's  like  her!  Just  like  her. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  says?" 

Dick  was  the  only  other  person  in  the 
outer  office,  so  he  was  forced  to  take  the 
question  as  addressed  to  himself.  "I 
have  no  idea,"  he  declared. 

"She  says  she  is  getting  awfully  tired 
of  her  present  lot  of  young  men,  and 
wants  me,  for  goodness  sake,  to  bring 
down  some  one  different,  and  bring  him 
soon.  She  says  she  is  tired  to  death  of 
the  man  who  has  lived  and  seen  and 
heard  everything,  and  she  is  dying  for  a 
man  who  is  as  like  Pierrot  as  two  peas!" 
Wooton  tore  the  letter  up  mechanically, 
36 


Cape  of  Storms 

and  put  the  pieces  into  the  waste-basket. 
"Well,"  he  went  on,  "I  wish  I  could — " 
he  stopped  and  looked  at  Dick,  breaking 
out  the  next  instant  into  a  broad  grin, 
"Jupiter!"  he  added,  "you're  just  the 
man!  Do  you  want  to  join  the  noble 
army  of  martyrs  in  ordinary  to  the  extra 
ordinary  Annie?  She'll  do  you  lots  of 
good;  she'll  be  a  pocket  education  in  the 
philosophy  of  today,  and  she'll  put  you 
through  all  manner  of  interesting  paces. 
Seriously,  she's  a  woman  who  can  do  a 
man  a  lot  of  good,  socially.  And  soci 
ety  never  does  a  man  much  harm;  it 
broadens  him,  and  gives  him  finish. 
Now,  you're  just  the  sort  of  youth  she'll 
like  immensely;  and  yet  she'll  soon  find 
out  that  you've  heard  about  her  and  her 
ways.  Never  mind;  she  won't  like  you 
any  the  worse  for  that;  she's  too  much  a 
woman  of  the  world.  What  do  you 
think?  The  next  time  I  go  down  to  tea 
at  her  house  I'll  take  you  along,  eh? 
All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  be  clever  and 
amusing  and  different  to  the  others; 
Mrs.  Stewart  is  like  the  rest  of  society 
in  that  she  demands  something  of  the 
people  she  takes  up,  but  she  doesn't  de 
mand  such  impossibilities.  I'll  write 
and  tell  her  I've  got  the  very  man!"  He 
went  on  into  the  inner  office,  before  Dick 
had  time  to  say  anything  in  reply.  And, 
to  tell  the  truth,  the  idea  rather  inter 
ested  him.  He  had  seen  her,  and  had 
felt  interested  in  her;  he  had  heard  so 
much  about  her;  and  now  he  was  going 
to  meet  her!  As  to  being  clever  and 
amusing,  he  thought  he  was  likely  to 
fail  miserably;  but  he  might,  uncon- 

37 


Cape  of  Storms 

sciously  perhaps,  succeed  in  being  what 
Wooten  called  "different." 

Just  then  Wooton  gave  a  sudden  ex 
clamation.  "This  is  Wednesday,  isn't 
it?  Well,  that  is  her  afternoon.  You'd 
better  shut  up  your  desk  for  today;  go 
up  to  your  rooms  and  get  an  artistic 
twirl  or  two  to  your  locks,  and  then  come 
down  to  the  smoking-room  of  the  Cos 
mopolitan  Club  about  quarter  to  four; 
I'll  be  there  waiting  for  you.  Then  we'll 
go  on  down  to  Mrs.  Stewart's  together." 


CHAPTER  III 
days  were  getting  very  short 
now,  and  darkness  was  already 
hovering  over  the  town  as  Dick 
passed  through  the  portals  of  the 
Cosmopolitan.  When  they  came  out 
together,  Wooton  and  he,  it  seemed 
to  Dick  that  the  town  was  in  one 
of  its  most  characteristic  tempers. 
It  was  in  the  beginning  of  winter;  the 
air  was  a  little  damp,  and  smoke  hung 
in  it  so  that  it  begrimed  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time.  The  buildings, 
in  the  twilight  that  was  half  of  the  day's 
natural  dusk  and  half  the  murkiness  of 
the  smoke,  loomed  against  the  hardly 
defined  sky  like  some  towering,  threat 
ening  genii.  The  electric  lights  were 
beginning  to  peer  through  the  gloom. 
The  sidewalks  were  alive  with  a  never- 
tiring  throng,  men  and  women  jostling 
each  other,  never  stopping  to  apologize; 
all  intent  not  so  much  on  the  present 
as  on  something  that  was  always  just  a 
38 


Cape  of  Storms 

little  ahead.  This,  the  onlooker  mused, 
was  what  it  meant  to  "get  ahead,"  a  blind 
physical  rush  in  the  dark,  a  callous  indif 
ference  to  others,  a  selfish  brutality,  a 
putting  into  effect  the  doctrine  of  the  sur 
vival  of  the  fittest.  The  streets  clanged 
with  the  roll  of  wheels;  carriages  with 
monograms  on  the  panels  rolled  by  with 
clatter  of  chains  and  much  spattering  of 
mud;  huge  drays  drawn  by  four,  and 
sometimes  six-horse  teams,  and  blazen- 
ing  to  the  world  the  name  of  some  mer 
cantile  genius  whom  soap  or  pork  had 
enriched,  thundered  heavily  over  the 
granite  blocks;  the  roar  and  underground 
buzz  of  the  cable  mingled  with  the  deaf 
ening  ringing  of  the  bell  that  announced 
the  approach  of  the  cable  trains;  over 
head  was  the  thunderous  noise  of  the 
Elevated.  It  was  all  like  a  huge  caul 
dron  of  noise  and  dangers.  Dick  de 
clared  to  himself  that  it  was  the  modern 
Inferno.  And  yet,  as  he  passed  toward 
the  station  of  the  Elevated  with  Wooton, 
Dick  began  to  understand  something  of 
the  fascination  that  the  place,  even  in 
its  most  noisome  aspects,  was  able  to 
exert.  In  the  very  rush  and  roar,  in  the 
ceaseless  hum  and  murmur  and  groan 
ing,  there  was  epitomized  the  eager 
fever  of  life,  its  joys  and  its  pains.  Here, 
after  all,  was  life.  And  it  was  life  that 
Dick  had  come  to  taste. 

There  was  a  quick  ride  on  the  El 
evated,  Dick  catching  various  glimpses 
of  unsightly  buildings  that  showed  their 
undress  uniform,  of  dim-lit  back  rooms 
where  one  caught  hints  of  dismal  pov 
erty,  of  roofs  that  seemed  to  shudder 

39 


Cape  of  Storms 

under  the  banner  of  dirty  clothes  flutter 
ing  in  the  breeze.  The  town  seemed, 
from  this  view,  like  the  slattern  who  is 
all  radiant  at  night,  at  the  ball,  but 
who,  next  morning,  is  an  unkempt, 
untidy  hag. 

Mrs.  Annie  McCallum  Stewart  rose 
rather  languidly  as  they  were  announced. 
Dick  noticed  that  in  some  mysterious 
way  she  managed  to  give  a  peculiar 
grace  to  almost  her  every  movement; 
there  was  something  of  a  tigress  in  the 
way  she  walked.  She  gave  her  hand  to 
Wooton — "Delightful  of  you  to  come  so 
soon,"  she  murmured. 

"One  of  the  things  I  live  for,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Stewart,"  said  Wooton,  "is  to  sur 
prise  people.  Knew  you  didn't  expect 
me,  so  I  came.  Brought  a  dear  friend 
of  mine,  Mrs.  Stewart,  Mr.  Lancaster. 
Want  you  to  like  him." 

"My  only  prejudice  against  you,  Mr. 
Lancaster,"  was  Mrs.  Stewart's  smiling 
reply,  "is  that  you  come  under  Mr. 
Wooton's  protection.  I  pretend  I'm 
immensely  fond  of  him,  but  I'm  not; 
I'm  only  afraid  of  him;  he's  too  clever." 
And,  still  laughing  at  Wooton  in  such  a 
way  as  to  show  the  exquisite  perfection 
of  her  teeth,  she  presented  young  Lan 
caster  to  several  of  the  others  who  were 
sitting  about  the  room,  chatting  and 
sipping  tea.  He  had  a  vague  idea  of 
several  stiff  young  men  bowing  to  him, 
of  an  equal  number  of  splendidly  ap 
pareled,  but  unhandsome  girls,  looking 
at  him  with  supercilious  nods,  and  of 
hearing  names  that  faded  as  easily  as 
they  touched  him.  He  found  himself, 
40 


Cape  of  Storms 

presently,  sitting  on  a  low  divan,  oppos 
ite  to  a  girl  with  dreamy  blue  eyes  be 
hind  pince-nez  eyeglasses.  He  hadn't 
caught  her  name;  he  knew  no  more  of 
her  tastes,  of  the  things  she  was  liksly 
to  converse  about  than  did  the  Man  in 
the  Moon.  But  he  instinctively  opined 
that  it  was  necessary  to  seem  rather  than 
to  be,  to  skim  rather  than  to  dive. 

"I've  been  'round  the  circle,"  he  said, 
trying  a  smile,  "and  I'm  delivered  up  to 
you.  I  hope  you'll  treat  me  well." 

The  girl  with  the  blue  eyes  looked  at 
him  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  she 
said,  abruptly:  "This  is  the  first  time 
that  you've  been  down  here,  isn't  it?  I 
knew  it!  Well,  these  things  are  not 
bad— when  you  get  used  to  them.  Now, 
you're  not  used  to  them.  Confess,  are 
you?" 

Dick  shook  his  head.  "I  am  innocent 
as  a  lamb,"  he  said,  with  mock  apology. 
The  girl  went  on:  "Well,  that  may  do 
as  a  novelty.  Annie's  great  on  new 
blood,  you  know.  Shouldn't  wonder  if 
she  took  you  up.  How  are  you  on 
theosophy?" 

Dick  stared.  What  sort  of  a  torrent 
of  curiosity  was  this  that  was  gushing 
forth  from  this  peculiar  creature?  "To 
tell  you  the  truth,"  he  hazarded,  "I  am 
not  'on'  at  all." 

She  smiled.  "Ah,  that's  bad.  How 
ever,  I  dare  say  there's  something  else. 
Now,  how  are  you  on  art?  " 

"I  know   a   little    something."       He 
smiled  to  himself,  wondering  how  much 
of  the  actual  practical  knowledge  of  art 
41 


Cape  of  Storms 

there   was  in  all   that  room,  outside  of 
what  he  himself  possessed. 

"Ah,  a  little  something.  Well,  that's 
all  that's  needed,  nowadays.  The 
great  point  is  to  know  'a  little  some 
thing*  about  everything.  To  know 
anything  thoroughly  is  to  be  a  bore.  A 
man  of  that  sort  is  always  didactic  on 
the  one  subject  he  is  familiar  with, 
and  absolutely  stupid  on  all  other  things. 
However,  what's  the  use  of  considering 
those  people?  They're  quite  impos 
sible."  She  began  tapping  the  carpet 
with  her  slipper.  "Speaking  of  impos 
sible  people,"  she 'went  on,  "there's 
Mrs.  Tremont.  Over  there  with  the 
grey  waist.  Intellectually,  she's  im 
possible;  socially  she  is  the  possible  in 
essence.  She  was  a  Miss  Alexander  of 
Virginia;  then  she  married  Tremont, 
and  lived  in  Boston  long  enough  to  get 
Boston  superciliousness  added  to  the 
natural  haughtiness  given  to  her  in  her 
birth.  She  talks  pedigree,  and  dreams 
of  precedence.  She  goes  everywhere, 
and  I  fancy  she  thinks  that  when  she 
hands  St.  Peter  her  card  that  personage 
will  bow  in  deference  and  announce 
her  name  in  particularly  awestruck 
tones.  The  girl  who  is  talking  to  the 
tall  man  with  the  military  mustache  is 
Miss  Tremont.  She  is  her  mother, 
plus  the  world  and  the  devil." 

Dick  interrupted  her,  as  she  paused 
to  sip  her  tea.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "and 
now  tell  me  who  you  are?" 

She  .  lifted    her    eyebrows     a    trifle. 
"You  have  audacity,"  she  said,  "and  I 
begin     to     think     you      are      clever. 
42 


Cape  of  Storms 

Audacity  is  successful  only  when  one  is 
clever.  When  one  is  stupid,  audacity 
is  a  crime.  Who  am  I?  Well — "  she 
smiled  again  at  the  thought  of  his 
assurance.  "Why  not  ask  my  enemies? 
But  you  don't  know  who  is  my  enemy, 
who  is  my  friend.  Well,  I  am  the 
Philistine  in  this  circle  of  the  elect.  I':n 
a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Stewart's,  and  I  come 
because  I  am  fond  of  being  amused. 
She  herself  amuses  me  most.  She  seems 
to  be  so  tremendously  in  earnest,  and 
she's  so  unfathomably  insincere.  She 
hates  me,  you  know,  because  I  didn't 
marry  John  Stewart  when  he  proposed 
to  me.  Then,  I  never  did  anything,  or 
had  a  fad,  or  was  eccentric,  so  I  don't 
really  belong  here;  but,  as  I  said  before, 
the  house  amuses  me,  and  I  come.  I 
don't  know  why  I  tell  you  this,  but  I 
don't  care  very  much,  and  besides,  I 
believe  you're  still  genuine.  It's  so 
pathetic  to  be  genuine;  it  reminds  me 
of  a  baby  rabbit — blind  eyes  and  fuzz. 
I'm  not  sure,  but  it's  my  idea,  that  if 
you  want  to  keep  Mrs.  Stewart's  good 
graces  you'll  have  to  do  nothing  harder 
than  stay  genuine.  It's  so  novel.  Most 
of  us,  today,  couldn't  be  genuine  again 
any  more  than  we  could  be  born  again. 
Ah,  here's  my  dear  cousin  approaching. 
I  suppose  she  comes  to  rescue  you  from 
my  clutches.  If  you  want  to  please  her 
immensely,  tell  her  I  bored  you  to 
death.  She'll  have  the  thought  for 
desert  all  week." 

Mrs.  Stewart  sailed  toward  them  with 
a   queenly  sweep    that    was    decidedly 
imposing.     She   had  decided    to    have 
43 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  chat  with  young  Lancaster. 
When  she  had  seen  him  in  the  office  of 
the  Torch,  and  now,  when  he  first 
entered  the  room,  shs  had  seen  at  a 
glance  that  he  was  handsome  enough 
not  to  need  cleverness;  but  she  was 
curious  to  see  whether  he  would  inter 
est  her  in  other  than  visual  ways. 
" You've  been  most  fortunate,"  she 
said  to  Dick,  as  she  reached  them, 
"with  Miss  Leigh  to  interpret  us  for 
you.  Has  she  told  you,  I  wonder,  that 
she  is  my  favorite  cousin?  But  now,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  art.  If  Miss 
Leigh  will  surrender  you  to  me — ?" 

"I've  been  talking  to  Mr.  Wooton 
about  you,"  she  said  as  she  bore  him 
away  in  triumph,  "and  he  tells  me 
you've  only  been  in  town  for  a  few 
weeks.  You  still  have  vivid  impres 
sions,  I  suppose.  When  one  has  lived 
here  for  years  and  years,  one's  impres 
sionability  gets  hardened.  It  takes 
something  very  forcible  to  really  rouse 
us.  And  even  then  we  prefer  to  let 
some  one  of  us  experience  the  sensa 
tion;  it  is  so  much  easier  to  take 
another's  word  for  it,  and  follow  in  the 
rut.  That  is  how  most  of  our  present 
day  fads  come  about.  Some  one  gets 
pierced  between  the  casings  of  the 
armour  of  indifference,  and  the  rest  of  us 
take  the  cue  and  join  in  the  chorus  of 
ecstasy.  We  don't  go  to  hear  Patti  or 
Paderewski,  you  know,  because,  we 
really  feel  their  art  deeply;  it  is  because 
someone  once  felt  it  and  it  became  the 
fashion."  While  she  talked,  she  had  led 
him  into  a  window-nook  and  motioned 
44 


Cape  of  Storms 

him  to  a  fauteuil  that  covered  the  cres 
cent-shaped  niche.  As  she  sat  down, 
the  lines  of  her  figure  could  be  traced 
through  the  perfect  fit  of  her  gown. 
He  noticed  what  finish,  what  art  there 
was  about  the  picture  she  made  as  she 
sat  there,  beside  him.  Her  gown  was  a 
delicate  shade  of  gray;  the  crepe  seemed 
to  love  her  as  a  vine  loves  a  tree,  so 
closely  did  it  follow  and  cling  to  the 
lines  of  her  hips,  her  waist,  her 
shoulders.  Over  her  sleeves,  immense 
ly  wide,  as  the  fashion  of  the  time 
decreed,  fell  lapels  of  silk.  She  had  on 
low  shoes,  and  above  them  he  could  see 
the  neat  contour  of  her  ankles,  also 
clad  in  gray.  "However,"  she  went 
on,  "I  did  not  intend  to  talk  of  the 
fashion;  I  wanted  to  ask  you  how  the 
town  struck  your  artistic  side.  Don't 
you  find  as  great  pictures  in  a  street 
full  of  life  as  in  a  valley  full  of  shadow? 
Isn't  there  more  of  the  history  of  today 
in  the  faces  of  the  people  you  meet  on 
the  Avenue  than  in  a  stretch  of  blue 
sky,  a  white  sail,  and  a  background  of 
Venice?" 

"I  see  you're  something  of  a  realist?" 
"Don't!  Please  don't  That  word 
gets  on  my  nerves.  I  suppose  my 
amiable  cousin,  Miss  Leigh,  told  you 
we  were  all  blue-stockings,  and  dilettan 
tes.  I  assure  you  we've  got  beyond  the 
Realism  versus  Romance  stage  of 
disputation.  Really,  you  don't  know 
how  you  disappointed  me  with  that 
question.  Mr.  Wooton  told  me  you 
were  original!" 

Dick  flushed  a  little.      "He  also  told 
45 


Cape  of  Storms 

me, "  he  retorted,  '  'that  you  were  extraor 
dinary.  I  begin  to  believe  him."  His 
tone  had  a  suspicion  of  pique  in  it.  But 
Mrs.  Stewart  beamed. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "I  like  you  when 
you  look  like  that.  That's — h'm,  now 
what  is  that? — anger,  I  suppose?  It's 
really  so  long  since  I  had  a  real 
emotion  that  I  don't  know  how  it's 
done.  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  and 
I  are  going  to  be  great  friends!  Yes,  I 
feel  I'm  going  to  like  you  immensely. 
Won't  you  try  to  like  me?"  She 
leaned  over  toward  him,  and  his  shy 
young  eyes  caught  the  faint  flutter  of 
lace  on  her  breast  with  something  of 
dim  bewilderment.  Her  lips  were 
parted,  and  her  teeth  shone  like  twin 
rows  of  pearls.  She  went  on,  before 
he  had  time  to  do  more  than  begin  a 
stammer  of  embarassment,  "Yes,  just 
as  long  as  you  stay  real,  and  genuine, 
I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me  very 
often;  as  often  as  you  possibly  can.  I 
imagine  that  talking  to  you  is  going  to 
be  like  dipping  in  the  fountain  of  youth. 
Tell  me,  you  people  out  there  in  the 
country,  how  do  you  keep  so  young?" 

"Ask  me  that,  Mrs.  Stewart,  when  I 
have  found  out  how  it  is  that  you  in  town 
lose  your  youth  so  soon." 

"True.  You  will  be  the  better  judge. 
But  you  never  told  me  how  it  strikes  the 
artist  in  you,  this  town  of  ours." 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  think  yet  how 
it  strikes  me.  I'm  busy  finding  out  all 
about  it.  Just  at  present  it's  all  like  the 
genius  that  came  from  the  fisherman's 
vessel  in  the  Arabian  Nights:  it  is  a 
46 


Cape  of  Storms 

huge  coil  of  smoke  that  stifles  me  with 
its  might  and  its  thickness.  I  know  there 
are  wonderful  color-effects  all  about  me, 
but  my  nerves  are  still  so  eager  for  the 
mere  taste  of  it  all  that  I  can't  digest 
anything.  Besides — "  he  stopped  and 
sighed  a  little — "I  must  not  begin  to 
think  of  paint  for  years.  I'm  a  mere  ap 
prentice.  I  just  scratch  and  rub,  and 
scratch  and  rub,  as  a  brother  artist  puts 
it." 

"But  one  sees  some  very  pretty  effects 
in  black-and-white.  Look  at  Life,  for 
instance — " 

"No,  Mrs.  Stewart,  if  you  would  be 
loyal  to  me,  don't  look  at  the  aforesaid 
'loathsome  contemporary,'  as  they  say 
out  West."  It  was  Wooton  who  had 
approached,  and  interrupted  Mrs.  Stew 
art  with  an  easy  nonchalance  that,  in 
almost  any  other  man,  would  have  been 
an  unpardonable  rudeness.  He  threw 
himself  on  a  chair  and  continued:  "Mrs. 
Stewart,  you  have  wounded  me  sorely. 
I  bring  you  a  disciple  and  what  do  you 
do?  You  buttonhole  him,  as  it  were, 
and  preach  treason  to  him.  For,  you 
must  confess,  that  to  tell  people  to  look 
at  Li4e  when  they  might  be  looking  at — 
h'm — another  periodical,  whose  name  I 
reverence  too  highly  to  mention  before 
a  traitoress,  is  High  Treason." 

For  reply,  Mrs.  Stewart  tapped  Woo 
ton  lightly  on  the  lips  with  a  large  ivory 
paper-cutter  that  she  had  been  toying 
with.  "As  I  was  saying,  when  rudely 
interrupted,  look  at — " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Stewart,  why  this 
feverish  desire  to  look  at  life?  I  ask  you 

47 


Cape  of  Storms 

both,  is  life  pretty?  Remember  M.  Zola 
and  Mr.  Howells.  They  are  supposed 
to  give  us  life,  are  they  not?  Well,  the 
one  flushes  a  sewer,  and  the  other  hands 
us  weak  tea.  I  prefer  not  to  contem 
plate  life.  I  am  obliged  to  read  the 
morning  papers  because  it  is  become 
necessary  to  know  today  the  unpleasant 
ness  that  happened  yesterday.  But 
otherwise  I  assure  you  that  life — " 

This  time,  Mrs.  Stewart  tapped  him 
quite  smartly  with  the  paper-cutter. 

'  'You  know  very  well  that  puns  have 
been  out  of  fashion  for  more  years  than 
you  have  been  of  age.  We  were  talking 
about  art,  and  incidentally  about  a  paper 
that  encourages  art,  and  you  begin  a 
dissertation  on  life!  What  do  you 
mean?" 

Wooton  mockingly  stifled  an  effort  to 
yawn.  "As  if  I  ever,  by  the  vaguest 
chance,  meant  anything!  I  hate  to  be 
asked  what  I  mean.  If  I  knew,  I  would 
probably  not  tell,  and  if  I  do  not  know 
why  should  I  lie?  The  safest  course  in 
this  world  is  never  to  mean  anything  and 
to  say  everything.  If  I  had  my  life  tc 
live  over  again — " 

Mrs.  Stewart  looked  at  him  with  a 
shudder,  lifting  her  shoulders,  while  her 
mouth  showed  a  smile.  "Why  speak  of 
anything  so  unpleasant?  " 

"Ah,  had  you  there,  Wooton,  eh!" 
It  was  Vanstruther,  who  had  strolled 
over  to  pay  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Stewart. 
She  held  out  a  hand;  he  pressed  it 
lightly.  He  nodded  to  Lancaster,  and 
then  looked  through  the  half-diawn 
portiers  to  where  in  the  black-and-gold 
48 


Cape  of  Storms 

drawing-room  the  others  were  sitting 
and  standing  in  colorful  groups.  Some 
one  was  at  the  piano  playing  a  mazurka 
of  Chopin's.  There  was  a  faint  click  of 
cups  touching  saucers;  the  high  notes 
of  the  women  and  the  low  drawl  of  the 
men.  Vanstruther  looked  at  them  all 
slowly,  and  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Stewart 
again.  "  All  in?  "he  inquired. 

Mrs.  Stewart  nodded  and  smiled. 

"I've  not  been  at  your  house  for  so 
long,"  Vanstruther  continued,  "that  I'm 
a  little  out  of  the  running.  Several 
people  here  that  are  new  to  me.  Now, 
that  girl  in  black?  " 

"Talking  to  young  Hexam?  That's 
Madge  Winters.  You  remember  young 
Winters  who  was  runner-up  in  the  tennis 
tournament  last  season? — sister  of  his. 
She's  just  back  from  Japan.  Has  some 
idea  of  doing  a  sort  of  Edmund  Russell 
gospel  of  the  beautiful  a  la  Japan  course 
of  readings.  Her  brother  amused  me 
once  and  I'm  going  to  do  what  I  can 
for  her.  Now,  who  else  is  there?  Let 
me  see:  I  don't  think  you  ever  met  Miss 
Farcreigh  before — she's  talking  to  the 
man  at  the  piano.  Delightful  girl — her 
father's  the  big  Standard  Oil  man,  you 
know — and  collects  china.  Sings  a 
little,  too.  But  chiefly  I  like  her  be 
cause  she's  pretty  and  a  great  catch. 
There's  a  German  prince  madly  in  love 
with  her,  but  her  father  objects  to  him 
because  his  majesty  never  did  a  stroke 
of  work  in  his  life.  I  believe  you  know 
all  the  others." 

"Thank  you,  yes."  Vanstruther 
turned  to  Dick  and  said  to  him,  with  a 

49 


Cape  of  Storms 

smile  at  Mrs.  Stewart,  "You  may  find 
eccentric  people  here,  Lancaster,  but 
you  will  never  find  unpleasant  ones." 

"That's  where  Mrs.  Stewart  makes 
the  inevitable  mistake,"  drawled  Woo- 
ton.  "There  should  be  one  or  two  un 
pleasant  ones,  merely  for  the  sake  of 
the  others.  If  it  were  not  for  the  un 
pleasant  people  in  the  world,  it  would 
hardly  be  worth  while  being  the  other 
kind." 

"You're  as  unpleasant  as  need  be," 
was  Mrs.  Stewart's  reply. 

"Delighted!"  murmured  Wooton. 
"To  have  done  a  duty  is  always  a  de 
light.  I  have  done  several.  I  have 
brought  you  a  new  disciple,  I  have  leav 
ened  your  heaven  with  intrusion  of  my 
self,  and  now — now  I  must  really  go. 
My  virtues  are  still  like  incense  in  my 
nostrils.  Allow  me  to  waft  myself  gently 
away  before  they  grow  rank  and  stale." 

Dick  rose  at  the  same  moment. 
"Oh,"  Wooton  said  to  him,  "you're  not 
obliged  to  go  yet.  Stay  and  let  Mrs. 
Stewart  enchant  you  with  the  nectar  of 
proximity!  I've  got  to  be  down  at  the 
Midwinter  dance  tonight,  so  I  must  be 
off  now." 

But  Dick,  in  spite  of  the  other's  pro 
testations,  insisted  that  he  must  really 
go  also.  He  assured  Mrs.  Stewart  that 
he  had  enjoyed  himself  immensely, 
promised  to  come  soon  and  often,  and 
was  presently  whirling  down-town  again 
with  Wooton.  The  latter  had  bought 
an  evening  paper  and  was  carefully  pe 
rusing  the  sporting  columns.  Dick  closed 
liis  eyes,  trying  to  recall  the  picture  he 
50 


Cape  of  Storms 

had  just  left:  the  dim-lit  drawing-room, 
with  its  well-dressed,  graceful  people; 
Mrs.  Stewart's  fascinating  voice  and  fig 
ure;  the  flippant  frivolity  of  all  their  dis 
course;  the  useless  sham  of  all  their  isms 
and  fads;  the  clever  ease  with  which 
everything  seemed  to  be  taken  for 
granted,  and  nothing  was  ever  truly  an 
alyzed — how  like  a  phantasmagoria  of  re- 
pellant  things  it  all  was,  and  yet  how  fas 
cinating!  Everyone  appeared  to  know 
everything;  no  surprise  was  ever  ex 
pressed;  no  emotion  was  ever  visible.  It 
was  fully  expected  that  everyone  was  pos 
sessed  of  no  real  aim  in  life  save  the  rid 
ing  of  a  hobby;  it  was  agreed  that  to 
appear  ignorant  of  anything  was  to  be 
vulgar.  And  yet,  in  that  circle,  Dick 
was  hailed  as  "so  delightfully  genuine," 
and  was  told  that  he  would  stand  high 
at  court  as  long  as  he  remained  so! 
Surely  these  were  strange  days,  and 
stranger  ways!  That  phrase  of  Mrs. 
Stewart's  about  young  Winters  grated 
harshly,  too — "He  amused  me  once!" 

Was  life  merely  an  effort  at  being  for 
ever  amused? 

Almost,  it  seemed  so. 


CHAPTER    IV 

HE  room  was  dim  with  smoke. 
Through  the  faint  veil  that  curled 
incessantly  toward  the  ceiling  the 
pictures  on  the  wall  took  on  a  misty  haze 
that  heightened  rather  than  spoilt  their 
effect.  It  was  not  a  large  room,  but  the 
walls  were  covered  with  pictures  of 


Cape  of  Storms 

every  sort.  It  was  impossible  to  escape 
observing  the  artistic  carelessness  that 
had  prevailed  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  furniture.  Bookcases  lined  the 
lower  portion  of  each  wall;  then 
came  pictures.  There  was  an  original 
by  Blum;  a  marvelously  executed  fac 
simile  of  a  black-and-white  by  Abbey; 
a  Vierge,  and  a  Myrbach.  Not  the 
least  remarkable  Mature  of  these 
ornaments  was  the  manner  of  their 
framing,  A  Parisienne,  by  Jules  Cheret, 
for  instance,  all  skirts  and  chic,  looked 
as  if  she  had  just  burst  through  the 
confines  of  a  prison-wall  of  a  daily 
paper.  The  carelessly  serrated  edges, 
then  the  white  matting,  and  the  brown 
frame  gave  a  whole  that  was  worth 
looking  at  twice.  An  etching — one  of 
Beardsley's  fantasies — was  framed  all  in 
black;  it  was  more  effective  than  the 
original. 

Over  the  mantel  were  scattered 
photographs  of  stage  divinities  in  pro 
fusion.  Many  of  them  had  autographs 
scrawled  across  the  face  of  the  picture. 
In  a  niche  in  the  wall  a  human  skull, 
with  a  clay  pipe  stuck  jauntily  between 
the  teeth,  looked  out  over  the  smoke. 

From  the  next  room,  beyond  the 
open  portieres,  came  the  sound  of  a 
violin  and  a  piano. 

The  air  of  Mascagni's  "Intermezzo" 
died  away,  and  for  it  was  substituted  a 
slow  dirge-like  melody.  Belden,  in  the 
front  room,  broke  out  into  an  explosive, 
"Ah,  that's  the  stuff!  Everybody  sing: 
'For  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in 
the  mohn-ninV"  The  wail  of  that 
52 


Cape  of  Storms 

solemn  ballad  went  echoing  through 
the  house,  all  the  men  present  joining 
in.  Belden,  who  had  been  lying  at  full 
length  on  the  floor,  explaining  the 
beauties  of  a  charcoal  drawing  by 
Menzel  to  a  group  of  three  other 
artists  —  Marsboro,  of  the  Telegraph, 
Evans,  of  the  Standard,  and  a 
younger  man,  Stevely,  who  was  still 
going  to  the  Art  School — had  jumped  to 
his  feet  and  was  slowly  waving  a 
pencil  in  mock  leadership  of  a  chorus. 
Vanstruther,  who  was  stealing  an  eve 
ning  from  society  for  Bohemia's  sake, 
was  far  back  in  a  huge  rocking  chair;  a 
fantastic  work  by  Octave  Uzanne  on 
his  knee,  and  his  legs  stretched  out  over 
the  center  table;  he  now  held  his  pipe  in 
his  hand  and  hummed  the  refrain  in  a 
deep  bass. 

"Go  on,"  urged  Belden,  as  the  last 
notes  moaned  themselves  away  in  the 
smoke,  "  go  on,  give  us  something 
else!  "  But  Stanley  laid  his  violin  down 
on  a  bookcase  and  declared  that  his  arm 
was  tired. 

Vanstruther  pulled  at  his  pipe  again, 
until  he  was  sure  he  still  had  fire. 
Then  he  declared,  oracularly,  "  Stanley, 
you  look  tremendously  religious  to 
night.  Been  jilted? 

"No,  shaved.  You  confirm  an  im 
pression  I  have  that  a  man  never  feels 
so  religious  as  when  he  has  just  been 
shaved.  I  assure  you  that  in  this  way 
I  could  really  read  one  of  your 
'shockers,'  Van,  and  feel  that  I  was 
doing  my  duty." 

"Oh,"  Belden   cut   in,    going  over  to 

53 


Cape  of  Storms 

one  of  the  bookcases,  "anything  to  stop 
Stanley  from  hearing  himself  talk.  It 
makes  him  drunk.  Seeing  we  had  a 
ballad  of  Kipling's  just  now,  suppose 
some  one  reads  something  of  his.  Then 
someone  else  can  sit  still,  and  think  of 
his  sins,  while  the  pen-and-ink  men 
make  sketches  of  him.  How'll  that 
do,  eh? 

"All  right."  It  was  Vanstruther, 
whose  voice  came  from  over  the  smoke. 
"I'll  read  if  you  like;  and  Stanley  can 
get  a  far-away  expression  into  his 
countenance,  while  you  other  fellows  put 
his  ephemeral  beauty  on  paper.  What'll 
it  be?" 

Stanley,  who  was  rolling  himself 
onto  a  sofa  in  the  corner,  murmured, 
while  he  rolled  a  cigarette  with  a  deft 
motion  of  his  fingers,  "Oh,  give  us 
that  yarn  about  the  things  in  a  dead 
man's  eye,  what's  the  title  again — 'At 
the  End  of  the  Passage',  isn't  it?  I'm 
in  the  mood  for  something  of  that 
pleasant  sort.  By  the  way,  aren't  we 
a  man  shy,  Belden?" 

"Yes.  Young  Lancaster  hasn't 
arrived  yet.  I  had  a  great  time  getting 
him  to  say  he  would  come;  he  has 
scruples  about  Sunday,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing;  but  he'll  turn  up  pretty 
soon,  I  know.  Here's  the  book,  Van." 
He  handed  the  volume  across  the  table. 
Stanley,  after  a  few  chaffing  remarks 
had  passed  back  and  forth,  was  ar 
ranged  into  a  position  that  would  give 
the  artists  a  sharp  profile  to  work  from. 
The  artists  began  sharpening  pencils, 
and  pinning  paper  on  drawing  boards. 
54 


Cape  of  Storms 

And  then,  for  a  time,  there  was  nothing 
but  the  sounds  of  pens  and  pencils 
going  over  paper,  and  Vanstruther's 
voice  reading  that  story  of  Indian  heat 
and  hopelessness.  In  the  other  room 
McRoy,  the  man  who  had  been  playing 
Stanley's  piano  accompaniment,  was 
reading  Swinburne  to  himself. 

The  bell  rang  suddenly.  Belden 
threw  his  sketch  down  and  opened  the 
door.  ' 'Lancaster,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
Then  they  heard  his  voice  in  the  hall, 
greeting  the  newcomer,  who  was 
presently  ushered  in  and  airily  made 
known  to  such  of  the  men  as  he  had 
not  yet  been  introduced  to. 

"You've  just  missed  a  treat,  my 
boy,"  said  Belden,  pushing  Dick  into 
a  chair.  "Vanstruther  has  been  reading 
us  a  yarn  of  Kipling's.  You're  fond  of 
Kip.,  I  suppose?" 

While  Dick  said,  "Oh,  yes,  indeed," 
Stanley  put  in. 

"It's  lucky  for  you  you  are,  because 
Belden  here  swears  by  the  trinity  of 
Kipling,  Riley  and  Henri  Murger.  He 
has  occasional  flirtations  with  other 
authors,  but  he  generally  comes  back 
to  those  three.  But  then,  when  you 
get  to  know  Belden  better,  you  will 
realize  that  he  has  what  is  technically 
known  as  'rats  in  his  garret.'  Do  you 
know  what  he  once  did,  just  to  illustrate? 
Walked  miles  in  a  bleak  country  dis 
trict  that  he  might  reach  a  certain 
half-disabled  bridge  and  there  sit, 
reading  De  Quincey's  'Vision  of  Sudden 
Death*  by  moonlight!  The  man  who 
55 


Cape  of  Storms 

can  do  that  can  do  anything  that's 
weird." 

'  'There's  only  one  way  to  stop  your 
tongue,  Stanley,"  Belden  remarked 
humoredly,  "and  that  is  to  ask  you  to 
play  for  us  again.  Lancaster  has  never 
heard  you  yet,  you  know." 

Stanley  looked  out  into  the  other 
room.  "What  do  you  say,  Mac?  Shall 
we  tune  our  harps  again?" 

"Just  as  cheap,"  said  the  other,  with 
out  looking  up  from  his  book. 

They  began  to  play.  From  Raff's 
"Cavatina,"  they  strayed  into  a  melody 
by  Rubinstein;  then  it  was  a  wild  gallop 
through  comic  operas,  popular  songs, 
and  Bowery  catches.  While  they  played 
the  men  in  the  other  room  began  com 
paring  sketches.  Vanstruther  ushered 
Dick  into  many  of  the  artistic  treasure- 
holds  that  the  room  contained.  Also,  he 
supplied  him  with  running  comments  on 
some  of  the  things  they  saw  all  about 
them.  Dick,  though  he  scarcely  felt  at 
ease,  felt  strongly  the  fascination  of  all 
this  devil-may-care  atmosphere.  The 
haze  of  smoke;  the  melodious  airs  from 
beyond  the  portieres;  the  careless  attire 
and  jaunty  nonchalance  of  the  men,  all 
drew  him  with  a  sort  of  sensual  hypnot 
ism,  even  while  his  inner  being  felt  that 
he  himself  was  a  little  better  than  this. 
He  was  in  the  land  of  Don't-Care;  dog 
mas,  creeds,  faiths  had  no  place  here; 
everything  was  "do  as  you  please,  and  let 
your  neighbor  please  himself."  He  said 
but  little;  he  thought  a  great  deal. 

One  of  the  artists  called  Vanstruther 
over  to  the  open  bookcase,  to  show  him 
56 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  sketch  by  Gibson.  Dick  looked  about 
him,  picked  up  a  copy  of  Omar  Khay 
yam,  that  had  Vedder's  illustrations,  and 
buried  himself  in  the  gentle  philosophy 
of  that  classic. 

But  Belden  was  again  become  restless. 
Mere  melody  never  did  anything  but 
irritate  him.  "Oh,  play  some  nigger 
music,"  he  asked.  Then,  when  a  few 
merry  jingles  from  "'Way  down  South" 
had  played  themselves  in  and  out  of  the 
echoes,  Stanley  put  his  violin  down  with 
a  decisive  gesture.  "There,  I've  paid 
my  way,  I  think!"  When  the  piano  had 
been  closed,  and  the  violin  laid  away  in 
its  case,  he  went  on,  "  'Seems  to  me  it's 
about  time  you  were  bringing  along  your 
friend  Murger?" 

Belden  walked  toward  the  shelf  where 
the  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme"  had 
its  place.  As  he  took  it  out,  however, 
he  said,  "Come  to  think  of  it,  Marsboro's 
going  to  commit  matrimony  pretty  soon, 
I  hear.  Any  objections?"  He  held  the 
volume  in  the  air,  questioningly. 

Marsboro  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 
"No,  no,"  he  said,  "go  on!" 

"Just  as  if,"  Stanley  observed,  "a  man 
about  to  be  married  knew  what  objec 
tion!  were!  Dante  Gabriel  Belden,  in 
some  things  you  are  weirdly  primitive." 

"I  would  sooner  be  primitive  than  ef 
fete,"  was  Belden's  retort. 

Stanley  turned  to  Marsboro.  "Don't 
think  me  curious,  old  man,  but  \s  it  any 
girl  I  know?" 

Before  Marsboro  could  reply,  Van- 
struther  broke  in  with,  "I'll  bet  money 
it's  not!  You  don't  suppose  Marsboro 

57 


Cape  of  Storms 

is  likely  to  think  of  marrying  a  woman 
with  a  past!" 

Marsboro  flushed  a  little;  and  moved 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  Dick,  looking  up 
from  his  Omar  Khayam,  wondered 
how  the  man  could  endure  such  verbal 
pitch  and  toss  with  such  a  subject. 

But  Stanley  turned  away  from  the 
matter  with  a  sneer.  "My  dear  fel 
low,"  he  said,  "if  it  will  soothe  your 
sweet  soul,  I  am  quite  willing  to  admit 
that  in  the  course  of  my  life  I  have 
known  some  women  who  had  pasts. 
They  are  invariably  interesting.  The 
only  difference  between  a  woman  with 
a  past  and  a  man  of  the  same  sort  is 
that  the  man  still  has  a  future  before 
him.  And  a  man  with  a  future  is  as 
pathetic  as  a  little  boy  chasing  a  butter 
fly:  even  if  he  wins  the  game,  there  is 
nothing  but  a  corpse,  and  some  dust  on 
his  fingers." 

Belden,  turning  the  pages  of  the 
Murger,  said,  deprecatingly,  "Don't 
get  Stanley  started  on  moral  reflections: 
in  the  first  place,  they  are  not  moral; 
in  the  second  place  they  reflect  nothing 
but  his  own  perverted  soul.  Talking 
morals  with  some  men  is  like  turning 
the  pages  of  an  edition  de  luxe  with 
inky  fingers." 

Stanley  laughed.  "Good  boy!  But 
now  go  on  with  Rodolph  and  his  flirta 
tions.  Where  did  you  leave  off?  Hadn't 
he  just  written  some  poetry,  spent  the 
proceeds  on  feasting  his  friends,  and 
the  night  in  a  tree?" 

Belden    began  to  read. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Dick  began  to 
58 


Cape  of  Storms 

feel  the  fascination  of  Murger's  re 
cital  of  all  those  rollicking,  roy- 
stering  episodes  in  the  Latin  Quar 
ter.  He  let  the  Omar  fall  idly  into 
his  lap,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
listening  to  Belden's  reading.  The 
other  men  smoked  and  smiled.  Dick's 
sense  of  humor  told  him  that  there 
was  something  quaint  in  the  way 
Belden  intentionally  fed  his  own  love 
for  Bohemianism  with  another's 
description;  none  the  less  he  ad 
mitted  that  there  was  no  sham, 
dilettante  Bohemianism  about  this  place 
and  the  men  present.  It  was  not  the 
Bohemianism  of  claw-hammer  coats 
and  high-priced  champagne;  of  little 
suppers,  after  the  theater,  in  a  black 
and  gold  boudoir,  where  the  women 
tasted  some  Welsh  rarebit  and  declared 
that  they  were  afraid  it  was  "awfully 
Bohemian,  don't  you  know!"  It  was 
the  Bohemia  that  recked  naught  of 
others,  but  had  as  banner,  "Do  as  you 
please,"  and  as  watchword  "Don't 
care."  It  was  the  old  philosophy  of 
Epicurus  brought  to  modern  usage. 

The  good-humored  account  that 
Henri  Murger  gave  of  so  many  pictur 
esque  light-love  escapades,  that  had  so 
much  of  pathos  mingled  with  their 
unmorality,  began  to  find  in  Dick  a 
vein  of  sympathy.  He  felt  that  it  was 
all  very  pleasant;  all  was  charmingly 
put;  it  was  interesting. 

"There,"  Belden  declared,  as  he 
finished  reading  the  episode  of  the 
flowers  that  Musette  watered  every 
night,  because  she  had  promised  to 

59 


Cape  of  Storms 

love  while  those  blossoms  lived,  "I'm 
dry,  that's  what  I  am.  I  think  it's 
about  time  we  investigated.  Come  on 
into  the  kitchen,  people.  There's 
some  coffee  and  cake  and  fruit. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  you  could  find  a 
bottle  or  two  of  beer  on  the  ice,  too." 

They  trooped  out,  through  a  room  and 
corridor,  to  the  kitchen.  There  was  a 
bare,  deal  table,  a  cooking  range,  a  gas 
stove,  a  refrigerator  and  several  doors 
leading  to  closets.  Every  man  brought 
his  own  chair.  A  search  was  begun  for 
cups,  plates,  knives  and  forks.  Each 
man  sat  down  where  he  pleased.  The 
coffee  that  was  made  was  hardly  such  as 
one  gets  at  Tortoni's,  but  it  was  refresh 
ing,  nevertheless.  The  sound  of  corks 
drawing  from  beer-bottles,  of  knives 
rattling  on  plates,  and  of  indiscriminate, 
lusty  chatter  filled  the  place.  Belden 
was  the  master-spirit.  He  saw  that 
everyone  helped  himself;  he  chaffed  and 
he  laughed;  he  looked  after  the  prov- 
c.nder  and  the  cigars.  The  infection  of 
all  this  jollity  touched  Dick;  he  began 
to  say  to  himself  that  to  worry  himself 
with  conscientious  scruples  just  because 
it  was  on  a  Sunday  instead  of  a  Monday 
that  all  this  happened,  was  to  be  some 
thing  of  a  prig.  And  he  had  always  had 
a  decided  aversion  to  being  that  partic 
ular  sort  of  nuisance.  He  resigned  him 
self  completely  to  the  spirit  of  the  time 
and  place. 

McRoy  broke  into    the  babel  of  talk 

with  a  plaintive,    "Everybody  listen  for 

about    a   minute,   will  you?     I   want  to 

ask  Belden  a  solemn  question:    Belden, 

60 


Cape  of  Storms 

have  you  finished  that  copy  of  'Old- 
World  Idyls'  that  you  were  going  to 
illustrate  for  me  in  pen-and-ink,  on  the 
margins?  " 

Belden  smiled.  "Why,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  old  man — "  he  began,  but  the 
other  interrupted  him  with,  "There! 
publicly  branded!  Belden,  you're  the 
awfulest  breaker  of  oaths  that  ever  was 
let  live.  You've  had  the  book  six 
months,  and  I'll  bet  you've  never  drawn  a 
stroke  on  it!" 

"The  mistake  you  made,"  put  in  Stan 
ley,  "was  to  believe  that  he  ever  would 
do  the  thing.  He  once  made  a  promise 
of  that  sort  to  me,  but  that  was  so  long 
ago  that  1  think  I'm  another  person 
now." 

"If  the  theory  of  evolution  is  correct," 
said  Vanstruther,  "your  late  lamented 
self  must  have  been  and  abominably 
corrupt  person." 

Stanley  sighed,  "Perhaps  so.  I  am 
trying,  you  know,  day  by  day,  to  ap 
proach  the  sublime  pinnacle  on  which 
you,  my  dear  Van,  tower  above  the  rest 
of  mankind.  However — "  he  reached 
his  arm  out  over  the  table — "Any  beer 
left  over  there?  " 

Belden  handed  a  mug  and  a  bottle 
over  to  him. 

"By  the  way,"  cut  in  Marsborc,  "ever 
had  any  more  trouble  with  the  neigh 
bors  here?  Said  you  kept  them  awake 
Sunday  nights  with  your  unholy  orgies, 
didn't  they?" 

"Yes.  But  I  said  if  they  were  going 
to  kick  on  that  score  I  would  get  out  an 
injunction  against  that  girl  of  theirs  that 
61 


Cape  of  Storms 

is  always  trying  to  play  'After  the  Ball, 
with  one  hand.  So  I  fancy  our  lances 
are  both  at  rest." 

So,  with  much  careless  clatter,  and 
exchange  of  banter,  they  ate  and  drank 
lustily  until  their  hunger  was  appeased. 
Then,  pushing  their  plates  and  mugs 
into  the  middle  of  the  table  they  leaned 
back  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  god 
Nicotine.  And  presently  someone 
hinted  that  the  empty  plates  and  the 
litter  of  the  late-lamentedness  in 
general  was  not  a  cheering  sight  and 
they  might  as  well  proceed  into  the 
studio  again.  There  was  a  shoving 
back  of  chairs,  a  trooping  through  the 
corridor,  and  they  were  all  assembled 
once  more  in  the  front  rooms.  Mc- 
Roy  hid  himself  behind  a  book.  The 
others  grouped  themselves  around  the 
piano.  The  plaintiff  strains  of  Cheva 
lier's  "The  Future  Mrs.  'Awkins" 
filled  the  room,  born  aloft  on  the 
impetus  of  five  pairs  of  lungs. 

There  was  a  violent  ringing  at  the 
outer  bell.  It  was  some  little  time 
before  the  men  at  the  piano  heard  the 
din;  it  was  only  at  McRoy's  muttered 
"Somebody's  pulling  your  front  door 
bell  off  the  wires,  Belden!"  that  the 
latter  went  to  open.  The  men  in  the 
room  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  man's 
voice,  a  quick  passage  of  sentences, 
then  good-nights,  all  vaguely,  over  the 
strains  of  the  coster-ditty. 

"What  do  you   think,"   said  Belden, 

coming   in  again,    "has  happened?     It 

was    Ditton,  of   the  Telegraph — lives  a 

door  or  two  north — just  dropped  in  to 

62 


Cape  of  Storms 

tell  me  a  bit  of  news  that  he  thought 
would  interest  me.  Wooton  of  the 
'Torch'  has  disappeared,  leaving  the 
property  deeply  in  debt.  Nobody 
knows  where  he  is.  Jove,  come  to 
think  of  it,  that's  pretty  rough  news 
for  you,  Lancaster!" 

"Yes,"  said  Lancaster,  "it  is.  And 
yet  there  is  one  consolation,  he  paid 
me  within  a  week  of  what  was  due  me." 

There  was  a  cessation  of  all  other 
discussion  to  make  room  for  the  con 
sideration  of  this  bit  of  news.  Every 
body  agreed  that  it  was  too  bad  that  so 
good  a  sheet  as  the  "Torch"  should  go 
the  way  of  the  majority.  Concerning 
Wooton  the  opinions  differed.  Belden 
began  to  apologize  to  Lancaster  for  hav 
ing  led  him  into  this  "mess,"  as  he 
called  it,  while  Stanley  sneered  at 
everybody  for  not  having  seen  through 
Wooton  long  ago. 

"He  is  inordinately  vain,"  said 
Stanley,  "and  frightfully  extravagant. 
Clever.  Lazy — awfully  lazy.  He  can 
sit  back  in  his  chair  and  tell  you  how  to 
run  the  New  York  Herald,  and  he  has 
been  able  to  get  nothing  profitable  into 
or  out  of  his  paper  from  the  time  he 
began  until  now.  He  theorizes 
beautifully;  the  only  thing  he  can 
really  do  successfully  is  to  borrow 
money  and  talk  to  women.  He  used 
to  amuse  me  just  in  the  way  an  actor 
amuses  me.  Half  the  time  I  think  he 
was  deceiving  even  himself.  I  always 
thought  he  would  do  this  very  thing, 
one  of  these  days.  He  used  to  have 
what  old  women  call  'spells'  now  and 
63 


Cape  of  Storms 

again,  when  he  found  himself  hard  up 
for   cash,    that     were    really  the   most 
curious  performances.     He  would  stay 
away  from  his  office  altogether;  genius 
as  he    was    in  warding    off  collectors, 
he   used  to  prefer    not    to     face    them 
sometimes.     There  was — I    should  say 
there  is — a  woman,  one  of  the  cleverest, 
most     cultured    woman    in  town,   who 
was  fond    of    him    in   an  elderly-sister 
sort  of  way,  and  he  used    to  go  to  her 
and    borrow     money.        Think     of    it: 
borrow    money    from  a   woman!      She 
saw    through    him    long  ago,    I    know, 
and  yet  he  used  to  use   such  artifice — 
such    tears,     and   promises    of    better 
ment  as  the  men  employed! — that  she 
always  helped  him  in    the  end.     Then 
he    gambled  to  try    to    make    the    big 
stake  that  would    enable  him  to  run  a 
rich    man's    paper;  the    only    result    is 
that  he    got  deeper    and    deeper    into 
the    hole.     All    the    time    he    avoided 
his  office;  if  he  scraped   up  a   banknote 
or  two  he  would  send  them  along,  per 
messenger  boy,  to    the   foreman   of  the 
composing-room  and  have    the  printers 
paid,  at  least.   You  must  pay  the  printers 
and  the  pressmen,   you  know,    even  if 
you  let  a  lot   of   literary  devils   starve! 
And    then  some  guardian  angel   would 
send  along    a  college   chum,    or   some 
fellow  with  more   loyality   than  discre 
tion,  and  A.  B.  Wooton  would  make  a 
big    'borrow'   and    be    once   more    the 
genial,    cynical    man-of-the-world  that 
the  rest  of    you   know.      This    time    I 
presume    the    angel   refused     to  come. 
64 


Cape  of  Storms 

The  end  had  to  come;  it  was  simply  a 
huge  game  of  'bluff. ' ' 

< 'How  is  it  you  know  all  this?"  asked 
one  of  the  others. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  was  Stanley's 
answer,  "  I  have  gambled  with  him.  All 
through  one  of  those  periods  when  he 
was  engaged,  ostrich-like,  in  sticking 
his  head  into  the  sand,  I  was  with  him. 
Besides,  I  know  something  of  his  private 
affairs.  He  had  sunk  all  of  his  own  mon 
ey  long  ago;  for  the  last  year  or  so  the 
Torch  andWooton  have  been  living  on  the 
gullibility  of  others.  It  seems  strange 
that  this  should  be  possible  in  this 
smart  American  city,  but  Wooton  was 
not  an  ordinary  bluffer;  he  was  a  genius. 
Owing  you  hundreds  of  dollars  he  could 
talk  to  you  all  day  so  skilfully  on  the  one 
especial  vanity  of  your  heart  that  you 
would  feel  much  more  like  offering  him 
another  hundred  than  like  even  so  much 
as  mentioning  the  old  debt.  I  feel  sorry 
for  him.  He  should  have  a  patron,  to 
humor  him  in  all  his  extravagances;  he 
would  be  splendid,  splendid!" 

But  Lancaster,  whom  the  news  had 
touched  a  good  deal,  declared  that  it 
was  time  he  was  taking  himself  off. 
Belden  accompanied  him  to  the  door, 
and  spoke  to  him  encouragingly  about 
another  position  that  he  thought  Dick 
could  easily  obtain.  Then  Lancaster 
passed  out  into  the  night. 


Cape  of  Storms 

CHAPTER    V 

ARRIAGES  lined  the  sidewalk  for 
blocks  in  every  direction.  There 
was  a  slight  sprinkle  of  rain  fall 
ing,  and  the  shining  rubber  coats  and 
hats  of  the  coachmen  caught  the  electric 
light  in  fantastic  streaks.  Horses  were 
stamping,  and  chafing  the  bit.  From 
every  direction  came  a  stream  of  human 
ity,  all  making  for  the  Auditorium.  Car 
riages  were  arriving  every  moment;  the 
bystanders  and  ticket  scalpers  caught 
glimpses  of  light  hose  and  dainty  opera 
shoes  and  skirts  that  were  lifted  for  an 
instant.  Men  in  black  capes  were 
hurrying  about  busily.  The  cable  cars 
emptied  load  after  load  of  well-dressed 
men  and  women.  All  the  world  and  his 
wife  was  going  to  the  opera. 

Dick  Lancaster,  as  he  got  out  of  his 
hansom,  looked  appreciatively  at  the 
picture  that  all  this  hurrying  throng 
made,  and  shaking  some  of  the  rain 
drops  off  his  coat,  entered  the  opera 
house.  As  he  looked  about  him  at  the 
richly  caparisoned  human  animals  all  on 
pleasure  bent,  at  the  nonchalance  that 
the  mirrors  told  him  he  himself  was  dis 
playing,  it  came  over  him  with  some 
thing  of  amusement  that  there  had  been 
decided  changes  in  Richard  Lancaster 
since  that  young  person  first  came  to 
town.  Impressionable  as  wax,  the  town 
had  already  cast  its  fascinations  over  him; 
he  was  in  the  charmed  circle.  He 
had  been  put  up  at  one  of  the  best 
of  the  clubs;  he  had  been  made  much 
of,  socially,  by  the  select  set  that  allowed 
66 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  preferences  of  Mrs.  Annie  McCallum 
Stewart  to  dictate  the  distinction  be 
tween  the  Somebodies  and  the  Nobodies; 
he  had  been  successful  enough,  pro 
fessionally,  to  enable  him  to  move  in  the 
world  as  befitted  his  tastes.  It  is  to  be 
confessed  that  his  tastes,  now  that  they 
had  been  whetted  by  the  approach  of 
opportunities,  were  not  of  the  most 
economical.  He  was  fond  of  all  things 
that  show  the  intellectual  aristocrat;  he 
liked  to  look  well,  to  dine  well,  to  talk 
well,  and  to  enjoy  good  music.  He 
liked  the  comfort,  the  remoteness  from 
the  mere  vagaries  of  the  weather,  that 
this  town  life  afforded.  Here  was  a  night 
such  as  in  the  country  would  be  dismal 
unspeakably;  yet  nothing  but  brilliance 
and  enjoyment  was  evident  in  his  pres 
ent  surroundings. 

He  threw  his  shoulders  back  with 
something  of  proud  pleasure  in  his  own 
well-being,  as  he  handed  his  cape  and 
opera-hat  to  the  caretaker.  Yes,  life 
was  good!  It  tasted  well,  and  he  was 
young,  and  there  would  yet  be  many 
long,  delicious  draughts  of  it! 

Mrs.  Stewart  was  in  her  box.  Several 
girls,  whose  low-cut  dresses  seemed  to  be 
longing  for  something  more  worth  show 
ing,  were  seated  on  the  chairs  that  sur 
rounded  the  central  figure,  Mrs.  Stewart. 
In  the  background  of  this,  as  of  all  other 
boxes,  was  a  phalanx  of  white  shirt- 
fronts.  It  looked  like  the  fore-front  of 
an  attacking  army;  first  4he  flash  of 
bayonets,  as  they  are  to  be  found  in 
woman's  eyes,  and  then  the  heavier 
artillery,  the  stolid  force  of  masculinity. 
67 


Cape  of  Storms 

In  the  wide  corridors  behind  the  boxes, 
in  the  foyers,  and  up  and  down  the 
marble  stairways,  the  stream  of  people 
flowed  back  and  forth.  Presently  the 
conductor  of  the  orchestra  took  his  seat. 
There  was  a  hastening  toward  seats 
and  boxes,  and  the  overture  of  the 
"Cavalleria  Rusticana"  floated  out  in 
echoes. 

Young  Lancaster  reached  the  Stewart 
box  just  as  the  first  bars  were  streaming 
forth.  Mrs.  Stewart  leaned  her  head 
gracefully  back  over  her  right  shoulder, 
and  smiled  up  at  him.  She  stretched 
up  a  beautifully  gloved  hand,  and  whis 
pered  a  "Glad  you  came  through  the 
rain,  after  all.  Awfully  disappointed  if 
you  hadn't!"  at  him.  He  nodded 
to  the  other  women,  and  shook  hands 
with  Mr.  Stewart  and  some  of  the  other 
members  of  the  white-shirted,  blank- 
faced  phalanx. 

" Ah,"  whispered  Mrs.  Stewart  with  a 
languid  show  of  interest,  and  putting 
her  lorgnette  up,  "  there  is  Calve!  " 

There  was  a  flutter  of  hand-clappings 
that  went  like  a  light  wave  from  the 
stalls  to  the  upper  balconies.  And  then 
began  that  exquisite,  dramatic  exposi 
tion  of  rustic  jealousy  that  Mascagni 
has  so  wonderfully  set  to  music.  As 
Santuzza,  Calve  was  magnetic.  Actress 
as  much  as  singer  she  riveted  all  atten 
tion.  Her  face  was  the  picture  of  agony 
the  while  she  was  contemplating  the 
inner  visiorv.of  her  betrayal  by  Turiddu. 
Then,  the  jealous  hatred  flashing  out  at 
Lola,  her  rival;  and  lastly  the  self- 
accusing  sorrow  that  covered  her  when 
68 


Cape  of  Storms 

she  saw  the  effect  of  her  tale-bearing 
against  her  former  lover.  In  the  inter 
val  there  was  the  marvellous  Intermezzo. 
Mrs.  Stewart  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  closed  her  eyes.  When  it  was  over 
she  said,  "There  is  something  of  the 
world's  joy  and  something  of  its  pain  in 
that  melody.  It  appeals  to  me  wonder 
fully." 

Lancaster  put  in,  "One  of  the  men 
at  the  club  declared  that  it  was  the  only 
thing  that  had  given  him  real  emotion 
for — oh,  years." 

"He  must  have  been  a  very  blase 
creature,"  said  one  of  the  other  women. 

"He  is,"  assented  Lancaster. 

Their  further  conversation  was  inter- 
ruped  by  the  rising  of  the  curtain.  When 
it  came  down  again  there  was  a  general 
movement  toward  the  foyers.  Some  of 
the  tall  and  pale  young  men  strolled  out 
to  smoke  cigars  and  talk  of  the  boxing 
match  that  was  going  to  come  off  at  the 
club  in  a  day  or  so.  With  much  flutter 
ing  of  fans  and  swishing  of  skirts  the 
angular  girls  betook  themselves  from 
Mrs.  Stewart's  box  to  see  if  they  "could 
see  any  of  the  other  girls. "  Mrs.  Stewart 
and  Dick  Lancaster  were  left  in  sole 
possession.  He  took  a  chair  beside  her 
and  looked  over  into  the  stalls. 

' '  Only  f  air, "  she  said,  noting  his  visual 
measurement  of  the  size  of  the  audience. 

"Yes.  These  people  don't  want  the 
New.  They  want  <  Faust '  and  <Aida,' 
and  they  think  'Tannhauser'  is  the  very 
last  in  music.  It  will  be  years  before 
they  see  the  gem-like  beauty  of  this  new 
Italian  school." 

69 


Cape  of  Storms 

84  And  yet — it's  a  return  to  the  old." 

"That  is  why.  The  old  things  are 
the  best,  if  you  only  go  far  enough  into 
the  past."  We  are  never  really  modern, 
we  are  merely  old  in  a  new  way. " 

"Do  you  know — "  she  leaned  her 
white  elbow  on  the  cushioned  chair-back 
and  placed  her  forefinger  just  under  her 
ear,  so  that  from  the  elbow  up  her  arm 
formed  a  white,  beautiful  rest  for  the  at 
tractive  face,  and  looking  young  Lan 
caster  smilingly  in  the  eyes,  tapped  her 
foot  caressingly  to  the  floor — "do 
you  know  that  I  think  I  shall  have  to 
cut  you  off  my  list  very  soon?  You  have 
— h'm — changed  a  great  deal  in  the 
few  months  I  have  known  you.  You 
occasionally  make  speeches  that  sound 
almost  cynical.  You  were  always  clever; 
you  always  talked  brightly,  but  you 
never  used  to  believe  some  of  the  sharp 
things  you  said;  now  I  think  you  are 
beginning  to.  I  liked  you  because  you 
were  different;  you  are  not  different  any 
more,  at  least  not  different  in  the  same 
way.  You  will  never  be  as  stupid  as 
most  of  the  others;  but  I  am  afraid,  too, 
that  you  will  never  be  quite  as  genuine 
as  you  were." 

He  sighed  as  he  looked  at  her.  He 
smiled  very  faintly  as  he  answered, 
"Yes,  I  am  afraid  you  are  right.  I  am 
not  as  I  was."  His  gaze  swept  out  over 
the  stalls,  the  crowded  foyer,  the  bril 
liance  everywhere.  "  But  how  could  I 
have  done  anything  else  than  let  all  this 
affect  me  a  little?  I  am  pliable,  I  sup 
pose,  and  I  bend  easily  to  the  wind.  I 
came  here  to  taste  life.  As  soon  as  I 
70 


Cape  of  Storms 

began  to  sip  the  cup  I  found  that  I  was 
going  to  like  it  immensely.  I  trod  the 
way  of  the  world  that  I  might  see  what 
manner  of  men  walk  there,  and  what 
sort  of  a  road  it  was.  Presently,  I  found 
that  I  liked  that  path  so  much  that  I 
preferred  it  to  the  bypaths  of  solitude 
and  asceticism.  And  what  has  it  mattered 
as  long  as  I  have  not  neglected  the 
work  there  is  for  me  to  do?  No  one  can 
say  I  have  changed  in  that  respect.  I 
work  harder  than  ever.  It's  not  fair  of 
you  to  upbraid  me.  A  great  deal  of  it  is 
•your  own  doing." 

"Yes?" 

"  Of  course  it  is.  You  have  been  my 
pilot  out  of  the  land  of  the  Narrows. 
When  I  came  up  here  I  was  narrow.  I 
thought  about  things  dogmatically,  and 
applied  hard  and  fast  rules  to  every  sort 
of  conduct.  Now  I  am  broader.  I  know 
that  where  the  world  moves  at  lightning 
speed  you  cannot  apply  the  same  tenets 
that  hold  good  in  a  village  where  life  is 
lived  at  a  cripple's  gait  and  where 
routine  is  the  reigning  deity." 

"You  would  not  have  called  it  a 
'  cripple's  gait '  a  little  while  ago,"  inter 
posed  Mrs.  Stewart. 

He  flushed  slightly  but  went  on:  "I 
realize  now  that  since  we  have  but  one 
life  to  live,  we  should  live  it  as  fully  as 
we  may.  I  could  not  have  seen  the  life 
that  all  of  you  here  are  living  without 
realizing  that  it  was  a  fuller  life  than  the 
one  the  country  afforded  me.  So,  cost 
what  it  may,  I  must  needs  live  it  also." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.    "Yes," 


Cape  of  Storms 

she  repeated,  half  to  him  and  half  to  her 
self,  "cost  what  it  may." 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  looking  away 
from  her,  and  with  something  of  regret 
in  his  voice,"  I  have  grown  worldly  be 
cause  I  loved  a  worldly  woman.  You — 
you  have  made  me  love  you." 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  a  trifle,  turned 
her  head,  with  the  eyelids  drawn  down 
over  her  eyes,  toward  him,  and  opened  the 
lids  slowly,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips. 
Then  she  looked  past  him  to  where  her 
husband  was  leaning  over  a  chair  in  one 
of  the  other  boxes. 

"Don't  you  think  John  is  looking  very 
handsome  tonight?"  she  asked  softly. 

Lancaster,  who  had  gone  red  and  pale 
in  waves,  answered,  through  set  lips, 
"Very." 

Then  the  curtain  went  up  on  "  Pagli- 
acci." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Lancaster 
had  heard  Leoncavallo's  opera.  In  its 
novel  charm  his  shame  and  mortification 
— shame  at  having  spoken  those  words 
to  Mrs.  Stewart  and  mortification  at  the 
rebuff  they  had  only  naturally  brought 
him — were  for  the  time  being  swallowed 
up.  With  eager  eyes  and  attentive  ears 
he  watched  and  listened  to  the  play  with 
in  the  play.  First  the  arrival  of  the 
mountebanks.  Amid  the  laughs  and  re 
joicings  of  the  villagers  the  theater- 
tent  is  set.  Then  the  effort  of  the  clown 
to  make  love  to  Canio's  wife;  the  slash 
of  the  whip  from  her,  the  muttered 
curses  from  him.  But  the  woman  is 
72 


Cape  of  Storms 

fickle,  after  all;  the  villager,  Silvio,  is 
more  successful  than  the  clown  was. 
The  sudden  approach  of  Canio,  the  hus 
band,  led  hither  by  the  vengeful  clown, 
still  smarting  under  the  whip;  the  escape 
of  Silvio,  and  the  woman's  refusal  to  tell 
the  name  of  her  lover.  And  so,  to  the 
wonderful  second  act,  where'  tragedy  is 
so  dexterously  woven  into  comedy; 
where,  under  the  guise  of  a  drama  that 
the  mountebanks  proffer  the  villagers  on 
their  little  stage,  the  greater  drama  of 
Canio's  jealousy  is  spun  out  to  its  tragic 
ending.  In  between  the  lines  of  the 
dialogue  intended  for  the  village  audi 
ence  come  lines  wrung  from  Canio's 
heart  that  sear  their  way  into  his  wife's 
breast,  spite  of  her  stage-smiles  and 
graces.  And  when,  at  the  last,  Canio, 
in  his  baffled  rage,  would  strike  her,  and 
Silvio,  her  lover,  rushes  from  the  audi 
ence  in  rescue,  only  to  be  stabbed  by 
the  finally  exultant  husband,  young  Lan 
caster  involuntarily  shuddered.  There 
was  something  griping  in  the  wonder 
ful  display  of  human  rage  and  jealousy 
that  this  young  tenor  gave  in  Canio; 
in  the  final  words,  full  of  tragic, 
double,  ironical  meaning,  "La  comedie 
e  finitn!"  there  was  something  of  a 
sentence  of  death.  And  somehow,  in 
Silvio  there  seemed  to  be  something 
,of  himself:  that  lover's  terrible  fate  was 
fraughtforhim,intheconscience-stricken 
state  he  found  himself  in,  with  warning 
and  protest.  While  the  applause,  reach 
ing  curtain-call  after  curtain-call,  surged 
all  about  him,  young  Lancaster  was 
lost  in  reverie.  He  was  changed,  yes. 
73 


Cape  of  Storms 

He  had  adapted  himself  to  the  man 
ners  of  the  town;  but  he  still  had  a  most 
nervous  conscience,  sharp,  unblunted. 
He  sat  still,  with  his  chin  hiding  his 
upper  shirt  stud. 

Mrs.  Stewart's  voice  roused  him.  Her 
husband  was  already  engaged  in  putting 
hercloak  about  her  shoulders.  "Won 
derful,  wasn't  it?"  she  said  iweetly. 
"We  shall  see  you  Wednesday,  shall  we 
not?" 

He  bowed  and  stammered  something, 
he  hardly  knew  what. 

The  opera  was  over. 

That  night,  before  he  took  off  his 
dress  clothes,  Dick  sat  down  and  wrote 
to  his  mother.  It  was  a  thing  he  had 
not  been  so  steadfast  in  of  late  as  once 
he  had  been. 

In  one  place  he  wrote:  "You  ask 
me,  mother  mine,  how  I  like  the 
town  now  that  it  is  no  longer  strange 
to  me.  Oh,  I  like  it  only  too  well. 
The  old  place,  the  old  friends,  the  sweet 
gentle  tenor  of  all  the  old  life  out  there 
in  Lincolnville,  all  seem  like  some  far- 
off  dream  to  me.  My  ears  and  eyes  are 
full  of  the  many  sounds  and  sights  of 
the  town;  the  multifarious  vistas,  and 
the  ever-changing  face  of  the  street.  I 
like  the  town  and  yet  I  fear  it.  Some 
times  its  might  oppresses  me,  and  I  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  to  get  out  in  the  woods 
near  our  home  and  lie  down  at  full 
length  on  the  mossy  bank,  where  the 
creek  sings  soothingly  and  the  sun 
hangs  like  a  golden  ball  in  a  clear  sky. 
I  want  to  hear  the  crickets,  and  the 
74 


Cape  of  Storms 

deep  silence  of  the  nights,  and  the  echoes 
of  detached  laughter  floating  over  the 
meadows.  I  want  to  watch  the  sunlight 
as  it  comes  through  the  leaves  and  plays 
hide-and-seek  on  the  lawn;  I  want  to 
watch  the  hawk  circling  in  the  air,  the 
chickens  scurrying  fearfully  at  the  sight 
of  him.  And  then  again  the  feverish 
itch  to  be  in  the  very  middle  of  this 
maelstrom,  the  town,  seizes  me.  I  long 
for  the  very  thick  and  foremost  of  the 
struggle,  and  the  picture  of  Lincolnville 
fades  away.  At  this  present  time  of 
the  year,  though,  I  can  really  prefer  the 
town  without  seeming  a  slave  to  it. 

"It  is  in  the  winter,  or  in  the  early 
spring,  when  country  places  are  chiefly 
seas  of  mud  and  slush  that  one  most 
deeply  realizes  the  delights  of  dwelling  in 
town.  Modern  invention  has  put  the  town 
dweller  beyond  the  weather's  jealous 
bites.  We  step  into  a  hansom,  we  drive 
to  the  club,  we  have  dinner;  behind 
club  doors,  and  in  club  comfort  we 
are  above  all  the  slings  and  arrows 
of  the  elements;  we  drive  to  the 
theatre,  and  the  black-and-white  splen 
dor  of  our  men,  as  well  as  the  fur-decked 
rosiness  of  our  women,  is  only  enhanced 
by  contrast  against  the  frowny  murkings 
of  the  sky.  I  have  noticed  that  the 
finale,  the  curtain-fall  of  any  important 
public  event,  such  as  a  dinner,  a  dance, 
or  an  opera,  is  always  a  more  picturesque 
thing  when  the  carriages  have  to  drive 
away  through  the  sleet.  Whereas,  the 
country!  The  weather  is  the  world  and 
all  that  therein  is;  you  can't  get  away 
from  it.  Mud  is  king!  *  *  * 

75 


Cape  of  Storms 

"  I  am  doing  something  in  paint  now, 
just  to  feed  this  terrible  ambition  of 
mine.  The  pen-and-ink  work  is  all  very 
well,  and  it  does  bring  the  bread  and 
butter,  but  it  is  not  what  I  want  for 
ever  and  ever.  And  I  think  I  am  going 
to  have  for  my  subject  just  such  a  scene 
as  I  wrote  of  a  moment  ago:  the  mo 
ment  before  the  carriages  drive  away 
through  the  rain,  with  everybody  in 
gala  attire  and  scintillant  with  bright 
ness  and  insincerity.  For  the  town  is 
insincere,  mother,  and  cruel.  Some 
day,  perhaps  I,  too,  will  become  insincere. 
I  do  not  know.  I  pray  it  may  not  be  so. 
But  I  am  alarming  you  causelessly.  I 
am  only  a  little  tired  and  unnerved  to 
night.  I  have  been  to  the  opera,  and  it 
was  just  a  little  affecting.  So  don't 
mind  what  I  said  just  now.  *  *  *  * 
I  am  getting  rather  tired  and  will  say 
good-night.  *  *  * 

CHAPTER  VI 

Cjl  N  the  early  dawn  there  had  been  a 
j\  slight  shower  of  rain,  but  by  the 
C5  time  the  sun  was  high  enough  to 
shine  over  the  town's  highest  buildings, 
the  clouds  parted,  and  presently  drifted 
away  altogether,  leaving  the  golden  disc 
full  freedom  in  giving  a  brilliant  look  to 
the  clean-washed  streets.  By  noon 
everything  was  as  bright  as  a  newly- 
scoured  kitchen. 

It  was  at  that  time  of  the  year  when 
spring  is  kissing  a  greeting  to  summer. 
There  was  not  too  much  heat.  Growth 
and  activity  were  not  yet  subdued  by 
the  later  lassitude  of  midsummer.  In 
76 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  parks  the  trees  were  full  of  blossoms, 
the  flowers  were  spelling  out  the  runes 
that  the  gardners  had  contrived  for  the 
Sunday  sight-seers,  and  the  roadways 
were  alive  with  well-equipped  traps  of 
every  sort.  The  avenue  was  colorful 
and  kaleidoscopic.  Dog-carts,  driven  by 
smartly-gowned,  square-sitting  girls, 
bowled  along  noiselessly,  the  footmen 
looking  as  stolid  as  if  carved  in  wood. 
Landaus,  with  elderly  women  leaning 
far  back  into  the  cushions,  and  shading 
their  complexions  under  lace-decked 
parasols,  went  by  with  an  occasional 
rattling  of  chains.  The  careful  observer 
might  have  noticed  that  the  number  of 
smart  vehicles  was  a  trifle  larger  than 
usual;  there  were  more  coaches  out,  and 
the  air  resounded  more  often  to  the 
various  military  and  hunting-calls  that 
the  English  grooms  were  executing  on 
their  horns. 

It  was  Derby  Day. 

Dick  was  walking  along  the  avenue 
watching,  with  his  artist  eyes  open  for 
all  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  whole — 
the  yellow  haze  of  the  sun  that  filled 
the  atmosphere  in  and  out  of  which  all 
these  rapid  color-effects  flashed  swiftly, 
the  thin  strip  of  sky-reflecting  water  to 
the  east,  the  line  of  grass  and  the  sky- 
touching  horizon  of  huge  buildings — 
when  he  heard  someone  calling  out  his 
name. 

"Lancaster!"  It  was  Stanley,  driv 
ing  a  dog-cart  and  a  neat  bay  cob.  "The 
very  man!  Jump  in,  won't  you?  Going 
down  to  the  Derby.  Thing  you  should 
n't  miss;  lots  of  color  and  all  that  sort 

77 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  thing!  Asked  Vanstruther  to  go 
down  with  me,  but  one  of  his  dime- 
novel  heroes  is  ill  or  something  of  that 
sort,  and  he's  off  the  list.  That's  good 
of  you.  Look  how  you're  stepping.  This 
brute  has  been  eating  his  head  off  all 
week,  and  isn't  really  fit  for  a  Christian 
to  drive.  That's  it!  Now."  They  went 
spinning  along  the  avenue. 

In  the  instant  or  two  before  he  climbed 
into  the  dog-cart,  Dick  had  reflected 
that  while  he  was  not  over-fond  of 
Stanley  in  a  good  many  ways,  the  man 
was  undeniably  a  clever  fellow,  always 
to  be  depended  on  for  bright  talk;  be 
sides  he  did  feel  very  much  like  study 
ing  the  scene  of  a  Derby  Day  with  its 
many-colored  facets. 

Watching  the  rapid,  shifting  beauties 
of  the  boulevard,  Dick  burst  into  a  little 
sigh  of  admiration.  "Ah,"  he  said, 
"  this  is  good!  This  is  living!  " 

"Youthful  enthusiasm, "muttered  the 
other  man.  "Delightful  thing — youthful 
enthusiasm — to  get  over." 

"Oh,  no!  I  hope  I  never  shall!  What 
is  life  worth  if  one  is  not  to  show  that 
one  enjoys  it?  How  can  you  look  at  a 
day  like  this — a  splendid,  champagne- 
like  day — and  yet — " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  interrupted  Stan 
ley,  with  a  queer  smile,  "when  a  man 
gets  to  my  time  of  life  there  is  always 
something  melancholy  to  him  in  the 
picture  of  a  spring  day.  It  reminds  him 
of  his  own  youth:  all  tears  and  sunshine. 
Today  there  are  neither  tears  or  sun 
shine;  it  is  all  just  contemplation.  I  don't 
seem  to  belong  to  the  play  at  all,  any 
78 


Cape  of  Storms 

more,  myself;  I'm  merely  a  spectator. 
To  the  spectator  there  is  always  some 
thing  pathetic  about  joy." 

"Your  lunch  was  indigestable,  that's 
all  that  is  the  matter  with  you,"  laughed 
Dick.  "  It's  a  dogma  of  mine  that  pes 
simism  is  merely  another  word  for  in 
digestion." 

"Dogma!"  sighed  Stanley,  "Don't 
you  know  that  all  dogmas  are  obsolete? 
Don't  you  know  that  in  this  rapid  age 
we  believe  everything,  accept  every 
thing  and  yet  doubt  everything?  " 

"  Isn't  that  a  trifle  paradoxical?" 

' '  No ;  only  modern !  We  believe  every 
thing  that  inventors  or  scientists  may 
tell  us;  but  in  the  world  spiritual  we  be 
lieve  nothing.  Is  that  a  paradox?  " 

"But  indigestion  is  surely,  h'm,  ma 
terial  rather  than  spiritual?"  Dick  en 
joyed  the  verbal  parries  that  he  was 
always  sure  of  with  Stanley.  He  was 
always  trying  to  get  at  the  secret  man's 
cynicism,  a  cynicism  that  was  the  essence 
of  what  many  other  men  of  the  world  he 
lived  in  seemed  to  feel,  but  were  not  all, 
perhaps,  so  well  able  to  express. 

"Oh  well, "  wasStanley's  answer, '  'after 
all,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  makes 
any  difference."  He  looked  blankly 
ahead  as  if  all  the  world  was  contained 
in  the  space  occupied  between  the  cob's 
ears.  Then  he  went  on,  in  his  minor 
monotone,  "No,  nothing,  except — " 

Dick,  thinking  to  be  cheery,  put  in 
"Except  marriage?" 

"No!"  came  from  Stanley,  with  a 
sudden  flick  of  the  whip  over  the  cob's 
flanks,  "that  only  makes  differences." 

79 


Cape  of  Storms 

Dick  laughed  somewhat  impatiently. 
"  Oh!  "  he  urged,  "why  sit  there  and  be 
dismal?  Why  not  wake  up  and  live? 
Surely  the  air  is  full  of  it,  of  this  fair 
Life?  Enjoy  it,  brace  up,  be  young!  " 

"Ah,  if  I  only  could  again,  if  I  only 
could!  Oh,  to  be  young  again!  He  is 
the  Autocrat  of  today,  the  young  man." 
He  lapsed  into  his  sneer  once  more. 
"The  young  man  of  today  thinks  he  has 
the  experience  of  the  centuries  at  his 
fingertips,  whereas  he  really  has  only 
the  gloves  that  were  made  yesterday 
and  will  split  tomorrow." 

"You  are  not  only  unjust,"  protested 
Dick,  "you  are  flippant." 

"Of  course  I  am!  The  keynote  of 
this  end  of  the  century  is  lightness. 
The  modern  declares  that  life  is  but  a 
joke,  and  a  bad  one  at  best.  How 
to  live  without  ever  allowing  one 
self  to  suspect  that  life  is  more  than  a 
game  in  which  the  odds  are  heads, 
Death  wins;  tails,  Man  loses:  that  is  the 
great  problem  of  the  decade.  The  uni 
versal  solution  of  the  difficulty  is  the 
practice  of  superficiality.  Skim  !  Be 
light!  Never  penetrate  below  the  sur 
faces!  Never  search  the  deep!  Make 
love  as  if  it  were  a  tourney  of  jests;  die 
as  if  it  were  a  riddle  well  guessed!  Be 
scintillantly  versatile,  rather  than  thor 
ough;  hide  your  ignorance  with  bland 
blasedom;  treat  tragedy  as  an  intruder, 
comedy  as  a  chum,  and  as  a  reward  you 
will  be  called  'up-to-date.'  Nay,  more: 
your  fashionable  friends  may  even  mis 
pronounce  French  in  your  behalf  and 
dub  you  fin  de  sieclef" 
80 


Cape  of  Storms 

Dick  shuddered  laughingly.  "  A  hor 
rible  philosophy,"  he  said.  And  yet  he 
was  glad  of  the  other's  bitterness;  it 
showed,  through  all  its  veil  of  sneers  and 
scorn,  something  of  the  point  of  view  of 
the  foremost  in  that  race  toward  Death 
that  some  of  the  town -dwellers  are  wont 
to  call  Life. 

Yet  he  could  not  keep  his  thoughts 
long  on  the  serious  import  of  the  other's 
scornful  flippancy.  How  shall  two-and- 
twenty  years,  and  health,  and  sunshine, 
and  a  spirit  susceptible  to  enjoyments 
that  the  very  atmosphere  seemed  rendol- 
ent  of,  allow  a  young  man  to  brood  on  the 
progress  of  the  world's  cancer?  No; 
there  were  too  many  distractions! 
Tandems  whirling  by  with  horsy  young 
men  handling  the  ribbons;  brakes  full 
of  laughing  girls  and  straw-hatted  young 
men;  hackney  carriages  with  four  oc 
cupants  unmistakably  of  the  bookmaker 
guild. 

Just  before  they  rolled  into  sight  of 
the  grand-stand,  Stanley  said,  "Oh,  who 
do  you  suppose  I  had  a  letter  from 
yesterday?" 

"No  idea." 

"The  most  noble  A.  B.  Wooton,  of 
the  late  lamented  Torch." 

"  You  don't  say  so.  His  nerve  never 
dies,  eh?" 

"  As  I  said  before,  his  is  not  a  case  of 
'nerve';  it  is  genius.  He  has  the  pret 
tiest  story  you  ever  read,  swears  his 
advertising  man  deceived  him  and  got 
the  paper  into  all  manner  of  tight  places; 
found  himself  forced  to  get  away  from 
the  ruins  so  that  he  could  the  better 
81 


Cape  of  Storms 

repay  his  creditors,  which  he  states  he 
has  instructed  his  lawyers  to  do,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it!  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it;  but  he  has  got  grit!  " 

"  That  is  a  national  fault,"  said  Dick 
soberly,  "  the  admiration  of  'grit'  in 
scoundrels.  For  that  is  all  that  Wooton 
is,  after  all!" 

"Oh,  well,  why  split  hairs?  He  never 
did  you  any  harm,  did  he?  However, 
about  his  letter.  He  writes  from  Dres 
den.  Says  he  has  just  met  some  Ameri 
cans — name  of  Ware,  I  think.  Enjoy 
ing  himself  immensely — girl  in  the  party 
— moonlight  rides  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Wonder  how  long  he'll  last  over 
there?" 

"I  knowsomeWares,"  said  Dick  quiet 
ly;  "but  I  hardly  think  it  could  be  the 
same  ones.  Though  they  are  in  Europe 
just  now,  that's  true."  His  thoughts 
tried  to  hark  back  to  Lincolnville,  to 
his  parting  with  Dorothy  Ware,  and  to 
her  return;  but  the  present  was  too 
strong  for  him.  They  were  driving  across 
the  course  at  this  moment,  and  over  into 
the  field,  which  was  already  a  motly, 
colored  mass  of  vehicles,  white  dresses, 
parasols  and  stamping  horses.  The  tops 
of  coaches  were  made  over  into  sitting 
room  for  summer-dressed  girls,  of  whose 
faces  one  caught  only  the  white  under- 
half — the  chin  and  the  mouth,  in  high 
sun  relief — while  the  eyes  were  in  shade 
of  the  huge  parasols.  One  caught 
glimpses  of  light  shoes  and  hose;  of 
young  men  walking,  in  earnest  converse 
over  betting  tickets  held  in  hand;  of 
wicker  lunch-baskets  being  brought 
82 


Cape  of  Storms 

from  the  inner  chambers  of  the  coaches 
and 'prepared  for  a  future  hunger;  and, 
beyond,  in  the  grand  stand,  of  a  black, 
indistinguishable  mass  of  spectators, 
noisy,  tremendous. 

As  soon  as  they  had  found  a  place  for 
the  dog-cart,  from  which  they  would  be 
able  to  see  the  finish  with  tolerable 
comfort  and  completeness,  Stanley  said, 
with  a  noticeable  alacrity  succeeding  the 
languid  pessimism  that  had  distinguished 
him  all  during  the  drive  down. 

"  Now  then,  Lancaster,  let's  hurry  over 
to  the  betting-shed!" 

For  a  moment  only  Dick  hesitated. 
"Going  to  bet,  or  just  to  look  on?"  he 
asked. 

"Bet,  of  course,  you  innocent  infant! 
But,  Scotland,  you  don't  have  to!  You 
can  just  soak  in  the — what  do  you  call 
it — the  inpressionistic  view  of  it.  But 
hurry  up,  whatever  you  are  going  to  do, 
I  don't  want  the  odds  to  tumble  down 
too  far  before  I  get  there!" 

Not  so  long  ago  Dick  would  have 
cavilled,  hesitated,  perhaps  refused. 
Now  he  caught  his  half-uttered  objec 
tions  being  met  by  a  whisper  in  his  own 
mind  of  *  Don't  be  a  prig! '  and  he  fol 
lowed  Stanley  silently.  It  occurred  to 
him,  presently,  that  to  warn  oneself  of 
becoming  a  prig  was  in  itself  evidence 
of  priggishness.  Impatiently  he  shook 
his  head,  as  if  to  get  all  analytical  reflec 
tions  out  of  his  head  altogether.  He 
looked  at  the  scene  around  him,  and 
forgot  everything  else. 

The  scene  in  the  betting-shed  was, 
just  as  is  the  stock  exchange  floor,  the 

83 


Cape  of  Storms 

boiling-point  of  the  kettle  of  froth  called 
metropolitan  life.  Around  the  book 
makers'  stands  was  a  seething, struggling 
mass  of  humanity.  Each  member  of  this 
mob 'was  pushing,  striving,  perspiring  for 
— what? — the  chance  to  get  something 
for  nothing!  The  bookmakers  them 
selves  were  straining  every  nerve  to  keep 
pace  with  the  public's  feverish  desire  to 
get  rid  of  it's  money.  On  their  little 
stands,  their  heads  on  a  level  with  the 
black-board  that  furnished  the  names  of 
the  horses  and  the  odds  against,  they 
stood;  one  hand  busy  taking  in  money 
that  was  handed  in  to  the  inner  part  of 
the  stand,  the  other  grasping  the  piece 
of  chalk  that  ever  and  again  touched 
the  black-board  to  effect  some  change 
in  the  odds.  One  man  inside  was  busy 
with  pencil  and  paper,  registering  each 
ticket  as  it  was  handed  out;  another 
covered  the  face  of  the  ticket  with  the 
hasty  hieroglyphics  that  stood  for  the 
horse  chosen  and  the  amount  wagered 
and  the  amount  that  might  be  won.  Here 
and  there  a  bookmaker  encouraged  the 
"plunge"on  some  horse  that  he  professed 
to  scorn  by  shouting  forth  his  odds  and 
the  horse's  name.  The  blind  struggle 
of  the  majority  was  an  amusing  spectacle; 
it  certainly  seemed  to  vouch  for  the  truth 
of  the  saying  that  man  is  a  gambling 
animal.  Like  serpents,  the  "  touts," 
professional  vendors  of  spurious  stable 
information,  went  winding  in  and  out 
through  the.  throng,  sometimes  dis 
playing  judgment  in  the  would-be  bettors 
they  approached,  but  as  often  as  not 
displaying  most  lamentable  indiscretion. 
84 


Cape  of  Storms 

Dick  watched,  with  an  amused  smile, 
how  one  of  these  fellows  sided  up  to  a 
quiet  man,  who,  program  in  hand,  was 
leaning  against  ?  pillar  watching  the 
boards  and  the  changes  in  odds.  The 
quiet  man  listened  to  the  tout's  hoarse 
whisperings,  and  then  threw  his  coat 
back  showing  an  "owner's"  badge.  The 
tout  slunk  sheepishly  into  the  crowd. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Stanley 
who  was  fighting  his  way  towards  some 
remote  goal  or  other,  "you'll  take  a  little 
flyer  on  Dr.  Rice.  That's  what  I'm  going 
to  do.  There's  a  fellow  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ring  has  him  a  point  higher 
than  anyone  else." 

Dick,  without  having  made  up  his 
mind  as  to  his  own  betting  or  not  betting, 
helped  his  companion  in  his  struggle  to 
get  through  the  crowd.  Desperate 
energy  was  necessary.  There  was  never 
any  time  for  apologies;  elbows  were 
pushed  into  sides,  toes  were  trodden  on, 
scarfs  twisted  and  sleeve-links  broken; 
no  matter,  there  was  money  to  be  won 
and  there  was  no  time  either  to  con 
sider  passing  annoyances  or  the  posibil- 
ity  of  loss. 

"Ah,"  said  Stanley,  finally,  as  they 
found  themselves  in  front  of  a  black 
board  that  had  a  figure  "7"  chalked 
to  the  left  of  the  name  Dr.  Rice  and  a 
"3"  to  the  right.  "Here  we  are! 
Now  then,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 
He  whipped  out  a  twenty  dollar  bill  and 
crumpled  it  carefully  into  the  palm  of 
his  hand. 

Dick  thought  quickly.  After  all,  it 
was  merely  the  foregoing  of  some  luxury 
85 


Cape  of  Storms 

or  another;  he  would  postpone  joining 
that  polo  club,  perhaps,  or  go  without 
that  new  edition  of  Menzel's  drawing's 
that  he  had  been  promising  himself. 
He  took  a  bill  out  of  his  card-case  and 
handed  it,  without  a  word,  to  Stanley. 

The  ticket  that  Stanley  presently 
handed  him  had  "Rice"  almost  illigibly 
scrawled  across  it,  and  the  figures  "70" 
and  "  10."  Dick  stood  to  lose  ten  or  to 
win  seventy  dollars. 

By  the  time  they  had  got  comfortably 
ensconsed  in  their  seats  in  the  dog-cart 
once  more,  the  horses  were  at  the  post 
for  the  great  event  of  the  day,  the  Ameri 
can  Derby.  Dick  had  begun  to  feel 
something  of  the  torment  of  expectation 
and  fear  and  hope  that  makes  the  gam 
bler's  nerves  either  like  a  sheet  of  reeds 
in  the  wind  or  like  a  tightly-drawn  wire. 
If  he  won  it  would  be,  as  he  heard  some 
men  in  the  betting-shed  remark,  "just 
like  finding  money."  He  could  allow 
himself  all  sorts  of  extravagances.  He 
observed  the  horses  making  false  start 
after  false  start  without  even  a  suspicion 
of  qualmishness  as  to  the  moral  aspect 
of  the  case  coming  over  him.  He  had 
grown,  to  use  his  own  phase,  broader. 

Down  beyond  the  turn  into  the  stretch 
was  the  bunch  of  restless  horses,  the  vari 
colored  jackets,  the  starter's  carriage, 
and  the  assistant  starter's  flag.  There  was 
the  sky-blue  jacket  that  showed  where 
the  favorite,  The  Ghost,  was  pirouetting 
on  his  hind  legs;  the  black  and  yellow 
bars  of  Etna's  jockey,  and  many  others. 
But  Dick's  eyes  were  focused  on  Dr. 
Rice;  the  horse's  jockey  was  in  all-black. 
86 


Cape  of  Storms 

"Ah — h!  "  The  vast  crowd  roars  and 
cheers  as  a  start  is  made.  All  together, 
like  a  herd  of  cattle,  they  sweep  on  to 
ward  the  grand-stand.  It  is  not  racing 
yet.  Favorite  and  second  favorite  are 
back  in  the  centre  of  the  bunch.  In 
front  of  the  grand-stand  one  jockey 
sends  his  horse  out  a  length  in  front. 
It  is  an  outsider,  but  there  are  plenty 
of  backers  of  outsiders,  and  a  cheer  goes 
up.  "He'll  walk  away  from  them!" 
"The  others  are  standing  still!"  and 
such-like  shouts  go  up.  The  pace  begins 
to  get  killing.  At  the  half  ^Etna  is  seen 
to  move  up  to  the  leader,  finally  to  pass 
him.  The  favorite  is  also  creeping  from 
out  the  ruck.  Slowly,  surely  he  forges 
past  all  the  leaders  but  ^Etna;  the  latter 
shoots  ahead  again  for  the  distance  of 
a  length  and  The  Ghost  drops  back  to 
fourth  place.  It  was  evidently  merely  a 
feeler  to  find  out  whether  ^Etna  was  going 
too  fast  or  whether  there  was  still  time 
to  get  up  when  the  stretch  was  reached. 

Round  the  turn  they  sweep  into  the 
stretch.  It  is  a  dangerous  picture,  with 
so  many  horses  so  close  together,  with 
such  speed,  and  such  possibility  of  col 
lisions.  But  the  turn  is  made  in  a  sec 
ond;  now  they  are  in  the  straight  road 
for  home.  The  Ghost  is  creeping  up 
again,  wearing  down  horse  after  horse, 
finally  reaching  ^Etna's  throatlatch. 
Neck  and  neck  these  two  race  up  the 
last  furlong;  then  a  sudden,  surprised 
roar  breaks  out  from  the  mob  of  on 
lookers;  another  horse  has  cut  loose 
from  the  bunch  that  has  now  become  a 
straggling,  attenuated  string  of  tired 

8? 


Cape  of  Storms 

horses.  The  shout  goes  up:  "  Look  at 
Dr.  Rice!"  "  Dr.  Rice!" 

Now  he  is  up  to  Etna's  flanks  and 
going  under  a  pull;  his  jockey  has  never 
yet  touched  spur  to  him.  The  whip 
comes  down  on  ^Etna;  it  is  no  use;  he 
is  raced  out.  Now  Dr.  Rice  has  reached 
The  Ghost,  and  the  latter's  jockey  be 
gins  using  the  whip.  In  the  grand-stand 
there  is  an  inferno  of  cheering;  men  are 
shouting  themselves  hoarse,  and  jump 
ing  up  and  down  in  nervous  paroxysms. 
Dr.  Rice's  jockey  never  moves  a  muscle 
to  all  appearances.  The  cries  go  up 
from  the  mob:  "Come  Rice!  "  "Come 
Ghost!"  The  judges  begin  to  strain  their 
their  attention  to  the  viewing  of  a  very 
close  finish.  Then  with  a  final  mighty  lift, 
Dr.  Rice,  in  the  very  last  stride,  shoots 
forward  under  the  wire  a  neck  in  front 
of  The  Ghost. 

Dr.  Rice  has  won. 

On  the  way  home  Stanley  was  another 
man.  He  talked  as  if  such  a  thing  as 
a  regret  for  a  lost  youth  had  never  en 
tered  his  head;  he  was  young  again.  He 
recounted  his  impression  of  the  race, 
asked  Dick  what  he  had  thought  of  it  all, 
was  full  of  amusing  anecdotes  about 
men  who  had  tried  to  get  him  to  back 
the  favorite,and  was  fertile  in  suggestions 
for  what  they  should  do  that  evening. 
Of  course  it  was  understood  they  must 
celebrate  in  some  way.  Surely!  Surely! 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  finally,  "I  know  what 
we'll  do.  We'll  go  along  to  the  Imperial 
Theatre.  I  know  some  of  the  girls  in 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  burlesque  there.  I'll  introduce  you. 
We'll  enjoy  ourselves." 

Dick  began  to  demur. 

"Don't  be  a  d d  idiot,"  said  the 

other  man,  half  smiling,  half  frowning. 

CHAPTER  VII 

O  one  that  has  ever  been  in  Dres 
den  is  likely  to  forget  the  beau 
ties  of  the  Bruehlsche  Terrasse. 
The  cool  plash  of  waters  from  the  Elbe 
come  up  invitingly;    the   green   of   the 
neighboring    gardens   is   luscious,    and 
there  are  nearly  always  strains  of  music 
in  the  air.     Especially  pleasing  is  the 
picture  on  a  summer's  evening. 

In  one  of  the  concert  gardens  they 
give  out  on  the  Terrasse,  there  sat  at 
a  small  round  table,  one  dreemy  mid 
summer  evening,  Mrs.  Ware  and  her 
daughter,  Dorothy.  In  front  of  them 
were  small  cups  of  coffee,  and  such  ap 
petising  rolls  as  only  the  Conditors  of 
the  continent  can  make.  The  garden 
was  in  no  wise  different  from  a  thous 
and  others  to  be  found  in  German  cities; 
save  only  that  it  was  especially  happy  in 
its  location.  There  was  a  light,  gravelly 
soil;  a  multitude  of  round  tables;  chairs 
occupied  by  a  cosmopolitan  crew  of 
both  sexes;  at  one  end,  in  the  shadow  of 
huge  lime  trees,  was  the  Capelle.  Over 
all  was  the  star-gemmed  sky.  The  air 
was  sweet  with  the  song  of  the  violins, 
and  the  cheery  laughter  of  the  many 
family  parties  came  echoing  along  from 
time  to  time  in  musical  accompaniment. 
There  were  German  students,  with  the 
89 


Cape  of  Storms 

vari-colored  caps  and  occasional  sword- 
wounds  on  their  faces;  officers  with 
clanking  swords  and  clothes  fitting  in 
lines  that  suggested  stays;  English 
tourists,  easily  distinguishable  by  cos 
tumes  they  would  nothave  dared  to  startle 
Hyde  Park  with;  Americans  with  high 
pitched  voices;  and  a  few  Russians,  ex 
cessively  polite  of  manner  and  cruel  of 
eye. 

Miss  Dorothy  Ware  was  engaged  in 
munching  at  a  roll  that  had  been  steep 
ing  in  the  strong  coffee,  when  she  sud 
denly  turned  to  her  mother  with  an 
eager  exclamation. 

"I  declare,  mamma,"  she  said,  "  if 
there  isn't  Mr.  Wooton  coming  this 
way.  The  idea  of  meeting  him  again  at 
all.  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  we  would; 
there  are  so  many  people  away  travel 
ing  about  this  time  of  the  year,  and  there 
are  so  many  places.  He  has  just  seen  us, 
mamma,  and  he's  coming  over  here.  See 
he's  lifting  his  hat.  I'm  glad  we've  got 
this  vacant  chair." 

Wooton  shook  hands  with  them.  "The 
old  platitude  about  the  world  being  a 
very  small  place  seems  to  strike  true," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  know,  it's  a  positive 
relief  to  talk  to  people  of  my  own  sort 
once  more."  He  had  sat  down  beside 
Dorothy,  and  placed  his  stick  and  gloves 
on  the  gravel  beside  him.  He  looked 
decidedly  handsome;  his  small  mouth 
seemed  smaller  than  ever,  and  his  face 
was  paler  than  when  he  dictated  the 
fortunes  of  the  Torch.  He  was  scrupu 
lously  dressed;  every  detail  was  so  nice 
ly  adjusted  that  he  would  have  success- 
go 


Cape  of  Storms 

fully  run  the  gauntlet  of  all  the  comment 
of  Piccadilly  and  Broadway. 

"  I've  just  come  from  Berlin,"  he  went 
on,  "it  was  like  an  oven  there.  Nearly 
everybody  was  away;  some  of  them  in 
Heringsdorf,  some  in  Switzerland,  some 
down  in  this  district.  My  compartment 
in  the  train  was  filled  with  a  lot  of  offi 
cers  on  leave,  and  they  talked  army 
slang  until  my  head  swam,  and  I  would 
have  given  gold  for  the  sound  of  an 
American  voice." 

"You  seem  to  rush  about  a  good  deal," 
ventured  Mrs.  Ware.  "  Din't  we  meet 
you  in  Schwalbach?" 

"  Mamma  forgets  so,"  put  in  Dorothy, 
"she's  been  meeting  so  many  people, 
I  begin  to  think  she  jumbles  them  all 
up.  But  it  was  in  Schwalbach,  mamma; 
you're  right.  Don't  you  remember? 
We  were  sitting  near  the  Stahlbrunnen, 
with  the  Tremonts  —  we  used  to  set 
next  to  them  at  the  Hotel  d'Europe — 
when  Mr.  Wooton  came  up  and  said 
how-d'ye-do  to  the  Tremonts,  and  they 
presented  him  to  us.  When  Mrs. 
Tremont  was  at  boarding-school,  you 
know,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Wooton, 
"she  and  mamma  were  great  chums. 
She  was  a  Miss  Alexander. "  She  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  hat  and  gave  it  a  mysteri 
ous  pressure,  presumably  to  rectify  some 
invisable  displacement.  She  turned  and 
looked  out  into  the  darkness  whence 
came  the  sullen  swish  of  the  river.  "It 
was  delightful  in  Schwalbach,"  she  said 
finally. 

"It  was  horribly  expensive,"  com 
mented  Mrs.  Ware,  sipping  her  coffee. 


Cape  of  Storms 

'  'But  the  waters  did  you  good,  I  hope  ?" 
inquired  Wooton,  suavely  solicitous. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so.  But  I  don't  seem 
to  improve  right  along,  as  I  should? 
But  I  shouldn't  complain.  I'm  a  good 
deal  stouter  than  when  I  left  home.  Be 
sides,  Dorothy  is  having  a  right  good 
time." 

"Ah,"  smiled  Wooton,  to  the  girl, 
"you  like  it — the  life  here?  " 

"Yes;  I  like  it.  I  don't  say  that  I  like 
it  better  than  other  things.  But  who 
could  help  liking  that?"  She  swept  her 
parasol  around  so  that  it  pointed  out 
toward  the  river.  There  was  complete 
darkness  there,  lit  up  occasionally  by 
the  lights  of  passing  steamers.  Fog- 
whistles  sounded  occasionally;  on  the  op 
posite  shore  there  was  a  dim  glow  of  yel 
low  lights.  The  water  sobbed  ceaselessly; 
there  was  a  mist  rising,  and  the  steamer 
lights  began  to  seem  hazier  than  ever, 
mere  golden  circles  hanging  in  the  dense 
darkness.  The  violins  were  playing  some 
thing  of  Waldteufel's. 

It  was  true;  not  even  the  most  patri 
otic  of  Americans  .could  have  helped 
granting  that  all  this  was  very  pleasant. 
Dorothy  Ware  had  certainly  given  up 
being  half-hearted  in  her  enthusiasm  for 
European  things;  they  had  met  so  many 
people  and  had  rubbed  up  against  so 
much  of  cosmopolitanism  that  unconsci 
ously  she  had  come  to  see  that  to  apply 
the  narrow  Lincolnville  view  to  all  the 
people  she  saw  now  was  a  trifle  absurd. 
She  gave  herself  candidly  over  to  enjoy 
it  all.  That  was  what  she  had  come  for. 
And  it  must  be  confessed  that,  during 
92 


Cape  of  Storms 

this  process  of  enjoyment,  her  memories 
of  her  former  self  became  ghosts  of  ever- 
increasing  vagueness.  When  she  caught 
herself  thinking  of  Dick  Lancaster  it 
was  usually  to  wonder  what  sort  of  a  girl 
he  had  married.  She  smiled  when  she 
thought  of  the  things  he  had  said  to  her 
before  they  parted.  It  didn't  seem  to 
touch  her  at  all  now,  and  she  seemed 
sure  that  a  man  siips  out  of  that  sort  of 
thing  much  earlier  than  the  woman. 

They  met  Wooton  a  good  deal  after 
that.  He  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
among  the  pictures,  and  when  they 
visited  the  Gruene  Gwoeble  they  found 
him  there.  He  was  invariably  bright 
and  amusing;  he  offered  to  pilot  them 
and  smooth  things  for  them  generally; 
Mrs.  Ware  began  to  think  he  was  tre 
mendously  nice.  She  remembered  that 
Miss  Alexander — now  Mrs.  Tremont — 
had  always  been  one  of  the  most  aristo 
cratic  of  girls;  she  recalled  with  some 
thing  of  a  shudder,  her  own  awe  at  her 
school-mate's  lengthy  dissertation  upon 
blood  and  family  and  kindred  subjects. 
So,  she  argued,  if  Wooton  was  in  Mrs. 
Tremont's  set  in  town,  there  was  cer 
tainly  not  the  vestige  of  a  doubt  con 
cerning  his  being  eminently  the  correct 
thing.  She  had  lived  in  the  country  so 
long  herself  that  she  admitted  she  was 
no  longer  able  to  note  the  difference 
between  good  coin  and  bad;  but  she  had 
infinite  faith  in  Mrs.  Tremont.  Dorothy, 
too,  got  to  feel  that  he  was  very  charm 
ing;  he  was  so  handsome,  and  dressed  so 
well.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  have  him 
in  the  party  \  he  added  distinction. 
93 


Cape  of  Storms 

Wooton  had  admitted  that  he  knew 
young  Lancaster;  he  divined  that  she 
had  liked  the  boy;  he  was  wise  enough 
to  tell  her  only  pleasant  things  about 
Dick.  The  only  thing  Dorothy  objected 
to  was  that  Wooton  went  about  a  good 
deal  with  the  Tremonts.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  quite  devoted  to  Miss 
Eugenie. 

"  I  don't  like  her  a  bit,"  she  told  him 
rather  tactlessly,  speaking  of  Miss 
Tremont,  "  she's  so  supercilious.  I 
never  know  when  she's  laughing  at  me 
and  when  she's  not  listening  to  me.  I 
suppose  she  thinks  I'm  a  country  chit 
and  don't  know  anything.  But  I  wouldn't 
be  clever  the  way  she's  clever  for  any 
thing  in  the  world.  Why  does  she  have 
to  sneer  at  innocence  and  goodness? 
Nobody  ever  accused  her  of  either,  did 
they?" 

Which,  Wooton  thought  to  himself, 
was  not  half  bad.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  enjoyed  being  with  Eugene  Tremont 
immensely.  She  was  one  of  those  in 
tensely  modern  girls  that  the  world  is  so 
unhappily  rich  in  just  now.  She  would 
talk  about  any  subject  under  the  sun. 
She  declared  that  she  had  always  cared 
more  for  male  society  anyway;  she  de 
spised  her  own  sex  and  said  spiteful 
things  about  it.  She  pretended  to  be 
completely  cognizant  of  all  the  wicked 
ness  there  was  in  the  world;  and  she 
went  on  the  presumption  that  man  was 
a  sort  of  infernal  machine  that  there  was 
unlimited  fun — the  fun  of  danger — in 
handling.  Men  liked  her  at  first  invari 
ably;  there  was  something  refreshing 
94 


Cape  of  Storms 

and  stimulating  in  the  nonchalance 
with  which  she  » tabooed  no  subject 
from  her  conversation  ;  they  said  to 
themselves  that  this  was  a  person, 
thank  goodness,  whom  one  did  not 
eternally  have  to  consider  in  the  light 
of  a  sex,  but  rather  of  a  sexless  clever 
ness.  But,  somehow  or  other,  her 
cleverness  wearied  presently;  she  palled 
as  all  surfaces  must  inevitably  pall. 
Wooton,  however,  turned  to  her  be 
cause  she  was  of  his  own  special  calibre — 
all  cleverness,  and  no  apparent  sharply 
denned  system  of  conduct.  With  the 
Wares  he  was  so  perpetually  on  a  grid 
iron;  he  was  afraid  of  saying  something 
that  would  startle  them.  They  amused 
him,  these  people,  with  their  simplicity, 
their  taking  virtue  for  granted  and  vice 
for  an  abhorent  mystery!  To  talk  to  them 
it  was  necessary  to  keep  a  constant 
check  on  his  cynical;  while  with  Eugene 
Tremont  it  was  sword  to  sword,  a  sharp 
continuous  fencing  with  verbal  weap 
ons. 

So,  when  Dorothy  Ware  made  the  cut 
ting  little  speech  about  Miss  Tremont, 
Wooton  told  himself  that  there  was 
something  more  than  mere  dislike  for 
the  Boston  .  girl  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
Considering  the  matter,  he  broke  into  a 
laugh.  Was  it  possible,  h'm.  That  would 
really  be  too  rich. 

He  began  to  be  seen  with  the  Tre- 
monts  oftener  than  ever.  He  went  with 
them  to  the  opera,  he  took  a  seat  in 
their  landau.  He  went  to  Teplitz  with 
them. 

"They're  more  in  the  same  set,  I  sup- 

95 


Cape  of  Storms 

pose,"  said  Mrs.  Ware,  when  Dorothy 
spoke  of  it.  "  He  was  at  college  with 
her  brother,  too;  I  guess  they  talk  about 
him  a  good  deal." 

Dorothy  guessed  that  she  knew  better; 
but  she  said  nothing.  Somehow,  Dresden 
began  to  seem  fearfully  dreary.  She  be 
gan  importuning  her  mother  to  pack  up 
and  go  to  Munich;  they  had  some  friends 
there.  Dorothy  declared  Dresden  made 
her  homesick;  she  said  it  was  all  so 
small  and  pretty,  anyway;  it  wasn't  a 
metropolis,  yet  it  tried  to  ape  the  real 
article.  And  then  there  were  so  many 
Americans — you  couldn't  talk  English 
anywhere  without  having  people  under 
stand  you,  which  was  distinctly  annoy 
ing,  because  occasionally  one  likes  to 
make  personal  asides  about  costumes 
and  hats  and  complexions — and,  well, 
what  was  the  use  of  staying  there  any 
longer  anyhow?  But  Mrs.  Ware  de 
clared  the  climate  agreed  with  her.  She 
said  she  hadn't  felt  so  well  for  ever  so 
long,  she  wasn't  going  to  try  any  other 
place  as  this  one  agreed  with  her.  Did 
Dorothy  want  to  see  her  die?  No; 
Dorothy  did  not.  She  submitted,  and 
went  about  looking  dismal. 

And  then,  one  day,  the  sunshine  came 
back  into  here  face  once  more.  It 
was  not  that  the  good  fairies  had  re 
modeled  the  town  of  Dresden;  it  was 
not  that  all  English-speaking  people  had 
suddenly  deserted  the  place;  in  fact,  it 
was  hard  to  say  just  what  made  the 
difference.  It  was  just  possible  that 
Wooton's  return  from  Teplitz  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  good  humor  in 
96 


Cape  of  Storms 

which  Dorothy  came  back  to  her  mother 
that  noon,  after  a  walk  down  to  the  Con- 
dftorei.  She  had  almost  cannoned  into 
him,  rounding  a  corner;  they  had  shaken 
hands;  he  had  avowed  the  pleasure  he 
felt  at  seeing  her  again.  It  is  just  pos 
sible  that  the  sight  of  this  young  man 
was  a  talisman  for  Miss  Ware's  temper; 
it  is  at  least  certain  that  her  melancholia 
was  gone. 

He  called  on  them,  in  a  day  or  so,  at 
their  apartments  in  the  Hotel  Bellevue. 
Mrs.  Ware  was  very  glad  to  see  him; 
she  was  more  vivacious  than  she  had 
yet  shown  herself.  She  proposed  that 
they  take  their  coffee  out  in  the  garden, 
on  the  river  front,  under  the  trees.  They 
sat  watching  the  boats,  and  the  little 
boys  paddling  about  barefooted;  it  was 
in  the  cool  of  sunset,  and  there  were  red 
bars  slanting  across  the  western  horizon. 
It  was  very  pleasant.  The  waiter  moved 
about  noiselessly;  there  were  some 
children  making  merry  in  the  swing  set 
up  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden. 

"Is  Teplitz  very  full?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ware. 

"Yes;  more  people  than  usual,  I  be 
lieve.  I  should  think  the  hot  baths  would 
do  you  good,  too,  Mrs.  Ware?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'll  stay  here  a  while  yet. 
I'm  getting  to  feel  quite  spry  again. 
You  left  the  Tremonts  there?  " 

"Yes?" 

Dorothy  turned  away  from  the  river 
and  looked  at  him  a  trifle  reproachfully. 
"You   must   be   awfully  fond   of  those 
people,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile. 
97 


Cape  of  Storms 

Wooton  shrugged  his  shoulders  care 
lessly. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  can't  say  that 
exactly.  But  Mrs.  Tremont  really  insist 
ed  on  my  going;  she  said  she  had  never 
been  there  before,  and  thought  that  as  I 
knew  the  ropes  of  the  place,  it  would  be 
a  small  thing  for  me  to  play  pilot  for 
them  for  a  while.  What  was  I  to  do?" 
He  looked  at  Dorothy  appealingly. 

Mrs.  Ware  was  pushing  a  stray  wisp 
of  hair  from  her  cheek. 

"In  Boston,  Dorothy,"  she  said,  "I 
guess  Mrs.  Tremont  is  quite  a  society 
leader."  She  said  it  as  if  that  was  an 
assertion  of  crushing  significance,  in 
tended  to  quiet  any  possible  questionings 
as  to  why  any  young  man  should  think 
it  necessary  to  comply  with  the  wishes 
of  so  great  a  personage. 

"What  if  she  is?"  was  Dorothy's 
quick  reply;  "that  doesn't  make  h°,r  any 
better,  does  it?  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  go  around  with  them  so  much,  that's 
all,  Mr.  Wooton." 

"Oh,"  he  laughed,  "I  assure  you  I 
don't  like  them  so  very  much  myself; 
but  I  don't  dislike  them.  And  I  hate  to 
offend  people.  They  asked  me  to  go!" 

They  drank  their  coffee,  and  watched 
the  twilight  settling  down.  They  talked 
lightly,  and  laughed  a  good  deal. 

Miss  Ware,"  Wooton  asked  presently, 
"you've  never  been  down  to  Schandau, 
have  you?" 

"  No.     Is  it  worth  while?" 

"  Immensely!  You  ought  to  make  the 
trip." 

'  'Oh,  I  simply  can't  begin  to  get  mamma 
98 


Cape  of  Storms 

to  move  from  this  town.  She's  perfect 
ly  enchanted  with  it,  somehow."  She 
looked  at  her  mother,  and  patted  her  on 
the  arm.  Mrs.  Ware  said  nothing,  only 
smiled  back  at  her  daughter,  who  went 
on,  "but  I'd  like  it  mightily." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  show  you  the 
place,"  Wooton  persevered.  He  looked 
over  at  Mrs.  Ware  in  a  hesitating  way. 
"Perhaps — if  Mrs.  Ware  would  rather 
not  stir  from  the  hotel — there  would  be 
no  objection  to  Miss  Ware  making  the 
trip  with  me  ?  The  place  is  really  pretty; 
the  royal  residence  there  is  one  of  the 
sights.  It's  only  half  an  hour  or  so  by 
the  steamer.  You'd  hardly  notice  our 
absence;  I  think  she'd  enjoy  it."  He 
wondered  a  little  whether  they  would 
look  at  him  in  frigid  horror,  or  take  it  as 
a  proposition  quite  in  accord  with  the 
conventions  they  were  accustomed  to. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  most  of  the 
people  he  knew  in  the  East  would  have 
considered  him  insane  if  he  had  ven 
tured  such  a  proposal;  but,  in  regard  to 
these  people,  and  this  girl  in  particular, 
he  remembered  that  a  friend  of  his  had 
once  used  a  phrase  that  had  struck  him 
at  the  time  as  rather  good,  and  that  was, 
perhaps,  applicable.  The  man  had 
declared,  half  in  a  spirit  of  banter,  half 
in  chivalrous  defense,  that  the  girl  of 
the  West  paraphrased  the  old  motto  to 
read:  "  Sans  peur,  sans  reproche  et  sans 
chaperon" 

To  his  relief,  Mrs.  Ware's  answer  was 

merely  a  smile  at  her  daughter,  and  a 

"  You'll  have  to  see  what  Dorothy  thinks 

about  it,  I  guess.   It's  her  picnic.  If  she 

99 


Cape  of  Storms 

wares  to  go — ."  She  left  the  sentence 
unfinished,  as  if  to  convey  the  impres 
sion  that  under  the  circumstances  men 
tioned  her  own  preference  would  be 
allowed  lapse. 

"  I  think,"  said  Dorothy,  with  a  little 
clasping  together  of  her  hands,  « that 
it  would  be  simply  delightful!  You 
wouldn't  worry,  would  you,  mamma? 
There  are  always  so  many  waiters  around 
and — dear,  dear,  I  talk  just  as  if  we  were 
going  this  very  minute!"  She  looked 
gratefully  at  Wooton.  Somehow  or 
other,  he  felt  himself  blushing.  He 
caught  himself  regretting  the  fact  that 
he  was  no  longer  as  genuine  as  this  girl 
was.  «'  I  think  it's  simply  perfect  of  you 
to  ask  me,"  she  went  on,  "I'm  sure  I'll 
enjoy  it  ever  so  much." 

"Then,"  he  said,  airily,  "we'll  con 
sider  that  settled.  It's  very  good  of  you 
to  say  you'll  go,  Fm  sure.  Suppose  we 
say  Wednesday?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

T  was  certainly  ft  sunny  enough  day, 
and  the  Elbe  glistened  invitingly. 
Wooton  had  been  up  earlier  than 
was  usual  for  him  and  had  taken  a  walk 
out  into  the  level  country;  when  he 
came  into  the  hallway  of  the  Bellevue 
he  was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Miss  Ware 
came  down  the  stairway,  presently,  her 
parasol  in  rest  over  her  left  arm,  and  her 
gloves  still  in  process  of  being  buttoned. 
She  smiled  down  at  him  radiantly. 
100 


Cape  of  Storms 


"  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting,  have  I?" 
she  cried. 

"Not  a  moment,"  he  answered,"  ad 
ding,  with  a  smile,  "strange  to  say. 
You  young  ladies  usually  do!  But — do 
you  notice  how  kind  the  clerk  of  the 
weather  is?" 

"Delightful!"  They  went  slowly  down 
toward  the  wharf  where  the  little  steamer 
was  puffing  lazily  in  the  rising  heat. 

"Your  mother  is  well?  "  He  asked  the 
question  as  solicitously  as  if  he  were  the 
family  physician. 

"  Quite  well.  The  fact  is,"  she  added 
with  a  comic  effort  to  seem  melancholy, 
"  I'm  afraid  she'll  be  so  well  soon  that 
she'll  want  to  go  back  to  the  States. 

"Ah,  so  you  don't  want  to  go  just 
yet?" 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  half  seen  it  all,  you 
know!  Still, — "  she  sighed  gently  and 
looked  out  beyond  the  real  horizon,  "  it 
will  be  nice  to  be  home  again." 

Wooton  brought  a  couple  of  steamer 
chairs  and  placed  them  on  the  deck-space 
that  was  well  in  the  shadow  of  the  awn 
ing.  The  sun  was  beginning  to  grow 
almost  unpleasantly  strong.  Presently, 
with  a  minute  or  so  of  wriggling  away 
from  the  wharf,  of  backing  and  sidling, 
the  little  steamer  got  proper  headway 
and  proceeded  slowly  on  its  way  up  the 
river.  The  central  portion  of  the  town 
was  soon  passed;  green  gxrden-spaces, 
and  houses  shut  in  by  cherry-trees,  gave 
way  to  low-lying  meadows  and  hills  riting 
up  in  the  distance.  The  perpetual  "shug- 
shug-shug"  of  the  engines,  and  the 
hushed  whispering  of  the  river  as  the 
101 


Cape  of  Storms 

steamer  bows  cut  through  the  water 
were  almost  the  only  sounds  that  broke 
the  quiet.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky.  Swallows  darted  arrow-like  through 
the  air. 

Wooton  had  pushed  his  hat  back  from 
his  forehead  and  sat  with  half-closed  eyes. 
He  was  silent.  Miss  Ware,  looking  at 
him  shyly,  wondered  what  he  was  think 
ing  about;  told  herself  once  more  that 
he  was  the  handsomest  man  she  had 
ever  seen,  and  then  sent  her  clear  gaze 
riverward  again.  What  Wooton  was  think 
ing  at  that  moment  was  that  he  would 
give  many  things  if  in  his  spirit  there 
were  still  that  simplicity  that  would  ask 
of  life  no  more  feverish  pleasures  than 
those  he  was  now  enjoying — the  pleas 
ures  of  peace  and  quiet.  To  be  able  to 
sit  thus,  with  half-closed  eyes,  as  it  were, 
and  let  the  wind  of  the  world  always 
blow  merely  a  gentle  breath  across  one's 
face! — perhaps,  after  all,  that  was  the 
road  to  happiness.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  thousand  and  one  experiences 
missed,  the  opportunities  wasted!  Surely 
it  was  impossible  to  appreciate  the 
sweets  of  good  had  one  not  first  tasted 
of  the  fruit  of  knowledge  of  evil!  But 
supposing  one  so  got  the  taste  of  the 
bitter  apple  into  one's  mouth  that  there 
after  all  things  tasted  bitter  and  the 
good,  especially,  created  only  nausea? 
For  that  was  his  own  state.  Well,  in 
that  case — he  smiled  to  himself  in  his 
silence — there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  enjoy,  enjoy  to  think  of  the  once 
easily  reached  contentment  as  of  a  dream 
that  is  dead,  and  to  strive  so  ceaselessly 
102 


Cape  of  Storms 

to  blow  the  embers  of  the  fires  of  pleas 
ure  that  they  would  at  least  keep  smoul 
dering  until  all  the  vessel  •  was  ashes. 
The  pleasures  of  the  moment — those 
were  the  things  to  seize!  The  moment 
was  the  thing  to  enjoy;  the  morrow 
might  not  come. 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  girl  beside 
him,  who  had  by  this  time  resigned  her 
self  with  something  of  quiet  amusement 
to  his  silence,  and  now  sat,  veilless,  her 
lips  slightly  open  to  the  breeze,  her  face 
unspeakably  fair-seeming  with  its  rosy 
flush  and  its  look  of  eager,  expectant 
enjoyment.  He  told  himself  that,  as  far 
as  this  moment  at  least  went,  it  left 
little  to  be  desired;  to  sit  beside  so  sweety 
a  girl  as  Dorothy  Ware  was  surely  pleas 
ure  enough.  And  then  he  thought  some 
what  grimly  that  he  himself  was,  un 
fortunately,  impregnable  to  the  infec 
tion  of  such  simple  joys. 

"A  penny!  "  he  spoke  softly,  as  if  not 
to  wake  her  too  brusquely  from  a  reverie. 

' '  Oh, "  she  cried,  with  a  little  start,  and 
turning  toward  him,  "they  are  not  worth 
so  much,  really!  I  was  thinking  of  Mr. 
Lancaster.  He  used  to  be  so  terribly 
ambitious;  you  know.  Didn't  you  say 
you  knew  of  him,  in  town?" 

Wooton  realized  that  he  must  needs  be 
diplomatic.  He  called  it  diplomacy; 
some  persons  might  have  rudely  termed 
it  mendacity.  The  two  are  commonly 
confounded. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "some  artists  that 
I  knew  used  to  mention  his  name  oc 
casionally."  He  paused  an  instant  or  two 
and    then    continued,    impassively,    «'  I 
103 


Cape  of  Storms 

seem  to  remember  hearing  someone  say 
that  he  was  engaged  to  some  very  rich 
girl." 

Dorothy  Ware  smiled  sadly.  "I  sup 
posed  he  would  be,"  she  said,  simply. 
She  felt  angry  at  herself  for  not  feeling 
the  news  more  deeply;  yet  it  hardly 
seemed  to  touch  her  at  all;  it  was 
just  as  if  she  had  heard  that  one  of  her 
girl  friends  had  married.  She  recalled 
Dick's  impassioned,  if  soberly  worded, 
farewell;  sheremembered  her  own  words; 
she  wondered  how  it  was  possible  that 
the  passing  months  could  have  changed 
her  so  that  now  she  seemed  almost  in 
different  as  to  young  Lancaster's  fortunes 
or  misfortunes. 

Wooton's  exclamation  of  "Ah,  there's 
Schandau!"  broke  in  upon  the  train  of 
her  self-questioning  thoughts.  They 
walked  over  to  the  rail  of  the  boat 
together,  and  looked  out  to  where 
the  roofs  of  summer-villas  and  hotels 
came  peeping  through  the  wooded  banks 
of  the  river.  As  they  stood  thus  she 
felt  his  right  hand  just  touching  her  own 
left.  Somehow,  the  blood  came  rushing 
into  her  face,  and  she  took  her  hand 
away  under  pretense  of  fastening  up  her 
veil. 

From  the  landing-stage  they  walked 
up  to  one  of  the  hotels,  where  Wooton 
ordered  a  light  repast.  Miss  Ware  was 
in  excellent  spirits.  The  beauty  of  the 
day  and  the  picturesqueness  of  the  place, 
with  its  cozy  villas  tucked  away  against 
the  hillside,  its  leafy  lanes  and  its 
mountain  shadows,  filled  her  with  the 
elixir  of  happiness.  She  chatted  and 
104 


Cape  of  Storms 

laughed  incessantly.  She  asked  Wooton 
if  they  couldn't  go  for  a  walk  into  the 
woods.  Walk,  of  course!  No,  she  didn't 
want  to  drive;  that  was  too  much  like 
poking  along  the  boulevards  at  home  in 
the  States.  She  wanted  to  stroll  up  little 
foot-paths,  into  the  heart  of  the  wood, 
and  gather  flowers,  and  have  the  birds 
whistle  to  her!  Didn't  he  remember 
that  she  was  a  country  girl?  She  hadn't 
been  in  a  real  wood  since  she  left 
Lincolnville,  and  did  he  suppose  she 
was  going  to  enjoy  this  one  by  halves? 

They  walked  out  along  the  white,  dusty 
chaussee  until  it  reached  the  denser  part 
of  the  hill-forest;  then  they  struck  off 
into  a  by-path.  In  the  shadow  of  the  pines 
it  was  cool  and  refreshing;  the  scent  of 
pines  filled  the  air.  In  the  thick  under 
growth  there  were  occasional  clumps  of 
blue-berries.  Dorothy  Ware  picked  them 
eagerly,  laughing  carelessly  when  she 
stained  her  gloves  with  the  juice.  She 
plucked  flowers  in  abundance,  and  had 
Wooton  carry  them.  They  strayed  heed 
lessly  into  the  forest,  hardly  noting 
whether  they  followed  the  path  or  not. 
They  found  themselves,  presently,  in  the 
lee  of  a  huge  rock  that  some  long-silent 
volcanic  upheaval  must  once  have  thrust 
through  the  earth's  shell.  Close  to  the 
earth  this  rock  was  narrower  than  at 
its  summit;  under  its  sloping  base  there 
was  a  cavity  all  covered  with  moss.  Over 
head  the  pines  shut  out  the  sky. 

A  trifle  tired  with  her  walk,  Miss  Ware 
hailed  the  sight  of  this  spot  with  un 
feigned  gladness.  Wooton  spread  his 
top-coat  for  her.  Sitting  there,  in  the 
105 


Cape  of  Storms 

silence  made  voiceful  by  the  rustling 
of  the  pines,  Wooton  felt  his  heart  beat 
faster  than  it  had  in  years.  She  was 
pretty,  this  girl;  her  voice  was  so  caress 
ing,  and  her  presence  and  manner  such 
a  charm!  Young  enough,  too,  to  be 
taught  many  things.  He  watched  her, 
as  she  sat  there,  binding  the  flowers 
with  the  stems  of  long  grasses,  stray 
curls  playing  about  her  cheeks,  and  her 
mouth  showing  the  slight  down  on  the 
upper  lip,  and,  for  an  instant,  there 
came  to  him  a  feeling  of  pity.  It  is 
possible,  perhaps,  that  the  serpent  oc 
casionally  pauses  to  admire  the  pigeon's 
plumage. 

"I  wonder,"  he  began,  softly,  "whether 
you  know  Hugh  McCulloch's  '  Scent  o' 
Pines'?  No?  I  think  you  will  like  it: 

Love  shall  I  liken  thee  unto  the  rose 

That  is  so  sweet  ? 
Nay,  since  for  a  single  day  she  grows, 

Then  scattered  lies  upon  the  garden-rows 

Beneath  our  feet. 

But  to  the  perfume  shed  when  forests  nod, 

When  noonday  shines; 
That  lulls  us  as  we  tread  the  wood-land  sod, 

Eternal  as  the  eternal  peace  of  God — 

The  scent  o'  pines. 

He  quoted  the  verses  musically.  He 
gave  the  words  all  the  sincerity  that 
never  found  its  way  into  his  actions.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  read  a  thing 
better  than  the  man  that  wrote  it,  be 
cause  they  know  better  the  art  of  simulat 
ing  an  emotion  that  he  knows  only  how 
to  feel. 

"  A  pretty  idea,"  she  admitted.  They 
talked  on  ramblingly,  lightly.  Over- 
106 


Cape  of  Storms 

head  the  sun  was  sinking  into  the  west. 
A  wind  had  sprung  up  from  the  south 
west,  and  in  the  north-west  banks  of 
clouds  had  gathered,  thick  and  threaten 
ing.  Occasional  flashes  of  lightning  darted 
across  the  cloud-space.  A  thunderstorm 
was  evidently  approaching,  proceeding 
stubbornly  against  the  wind.  The  sun 
dipped  behind  the  clouds,  that  rose 
higher,  presently  over-casting  all  the 
heavens.  Light  gusts  of  wind  went 
puffing  through  the  forest,  scattering 
leaves  and  whirling  twigs. 

Suddenly,  with  a  crash  and  a  roar,  the 
mountain  storm  broke  over  the  forest. 
Almost  on  the  stroke  of  the  first  flash  of 
lightning  came  the  thunder;  then  as  if  the 
clouds  had  been  bulls  charging  in  the 
arena,  the  furious  concussion  was  followed 
by  the  gush  of  the  blood  of  heaven.  The 
rain  came  down  in  lances  that  struck  the 
earth  and  bounded  up  again.  About  the 
heads  of  the  pines  the  wind  roared  and 
wailed. 

Coming  upon  them  so  suddenly,  this 
riot  of  the  elements  made  the  two  young 
people  sitting  there  in  the  lee  of  the  rock, 
start  to  their  feet  in  dismay.  A  mo 
mentary  gleam  came  into  Wooton's  eyes; 
whether  it  was  anger  or  joy  only  himself 
could  have  told.  All  about  them  the 
storm  was  playing  its  tremendous  taran- 
telle;  the  whole  earth  seemed  to  shake 
with  the  repeated  cannonades  of  the 
thunderous  artillery  of  the  heavens,  and 
through  the  darkness  that  had  fallen  the 
lightning  sent  such  vivid  streaks  of  light 
as  only  made  the  succeeding  gloom 
more  dismal.  It  was  to  tempt  fate  to 
107 


Cape  of  Storms 

venture  out  of  the  shelter  the  rock  was 
giving.  Instinctively  the  girl  shrank  a 
little  toward  Wooton.  She  looked  at 
him  appealin'gly.  "  It's  dreadful,"  she 
said,  "it — it  hurts  my  eyes  so!  And — 
the  steamer!  Mamma  will  think — "  She 
stopped  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands  just  as  another  flash  seared  its 
way  into  the  forest. 

Wooton  stood  still,  biting  his  under- 
lip  nervously.  "I — I'm  afraid  it's  all  my 
fault,"  he  said,  "I  ought  to  have  known 
it  was  getting  late.  And  these  storms 
come  up  so  quickly  here  in  the  moun 
tains.  We  can't  stir  from  here.  The 
storm  is  playing  right  around  this  wood. 
It  means  waiting."  He  saw  her  shivering 
slightly.  Bending  down,  he  picked  up 
his  top-coat,  and  put  it  gently  about  her 
shoulders.  "You'll  catch  cold,"  he 
warned,  in  a  tender  voice. 

She  said  nothing;  but  he  could  see 
gratitude  in  her  eyes.  •  Something  seemed 
to  draw  her  toward  him.  At  each  glaring 
flash  she  shrank  nearer  to  him.  He  was 
looking  tensely  at  her,  his  hand  against 
a  ledge  of  rock,  lest  the  gusts  of  wind 
should  swing  him  out  into  the  open. 

A  crash  that  seemed  to  deafen  all  hear 
ing  for  several  instants;  a  flying  mass 
of  splintered  wood,  torn  from  a  sudden 
ly  stricken  tree  that  fell  straight  across 
the  opening  of  their  shelter;  a  light  so 
white  that  it  hurt  the  eyes;  and  a  trem 
bling  under  foot  that  shook  the  very 
ground  these  two  storm-stayed  ones  stood. 
In  the  instant  that  followed  the  crash 
Wooton  felt  the  girl  beside  him  lean 
heavily  towards  him;  her  eyes  were 
108 


Cape  of  Storms 

closed;  she  had  fainted.  Keeping  her 
tightly  in  his  arms,  a  queer  smile  played 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "  It  was 
ordained!  "  His  thoughts  uttered  them 
selves  almost  unconsciously.  Holding  her 
so,  with  the  thunder  still  rolling  its 
chariot  wheels  all  about  the  reverberate 
rocks,  he  kissed  her. 

The  wind  veered  about,  sending  the 
rain  spatteringly  into  their  faces.  Woo- 
ton  unfastened  the  girl's  veil,  and  took 
her  hat  off,  very  gently  and  carefully. 
The  rain  splashed  into  her  face,  stream 
ing  over  the  brow  and  the  heavy  lashes. 

Slowly  the  lashes  lifted;  her  breast 
moved  in  a  tremulous  breath.  As  com 
prehension  of  her  position  came  to  her 
awakening  faculties  she  seemed  to  shud 
der  a  little,  to  attempt  withdrawal;  then 
her  eyes  sought  his,  and  something  found 
there  seemed  to  soothe;  she  sighed  again 
and  sank  more  closely  into  his  embrace. 
And  now  fires  went  coursing  through 
the  man;  he  pressed  the  girl's  slight 
body  to  him  fiercely,  and  kissing  her 
upon  both  eyes,  whispered  into  the  rosy 
shell  of  her  ear,  "  Dorothy — I  love 
you!" 

The  storm  still  played  relentlessly 
about  them.  The  rain  came  further  and 
further  into  the  shelter-hole.  But  these 
two,  lip  to  lip,  and  breath  to  breath, 
gave  no  heed  save  to  the  promptings 
of  their  own  emotions.  The  elements 
might  rend  the  rocks;  but  hearts  they 
could  not  scar!  The  girl  felt  herself  ir 
resistibly  drawn  by  this  man.  Some 
thing  in  him  had  always  attracted  her 
wonderfully — something  she  had  never 
109 


Cape  of  Storms 

sought  to  explain,  scarcely  heeding  it 
for  any  length  of  time.  But  now  that 
chance  had,  as  it  seemed,  thrown  the  mag 
net  and  the  steel  so  closely  together,  she 
felt  this  hidden,  mysterious  force  more 
mightily  than  ever;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  in  his  kisses  all  the  earth  might  melt 
away  and  become  nothing.  Moments 
when  she  feared  him,  when  he  inspired 
her  with  something  not  unlike  anger, 
were  succeeded  by  moments  when  she 
felt  that  he  had  put  an  arrow  into  her 
heart  which  to  withdraw  meant  unutter 
able  anguish;  but  which  to  bury  more 
deeply  meant  the  bitterest  and  sweetest 
of  the  bitter-sweets  of  love. 

While  the  storm  raged  on  and  over 
the  mountain,  these  two  sat  there  where 
whatsoever  forest-gods  of  love  there  be 
had  drawn  their  magic  circle.  Reeling 
over  the  mountain  top  like  a  drunken 
man,  the  storm  passed  on  along  the 
river-banks,  waking  up  echoes  in  the 
Bastei,  and  flying,  presently,  into  Austria. 
Its  muttered  curses  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  gradually  to  be  swallowed  up 
altogether  in  the  swaying  of  the  pines 
and  the  streaming  of  the  rain. 

Then,  presently,  the  pines  began  to 
lift  their  heads  again,  to  shake  them 
selves  as  if  in  angry  impatience,  so  that 
the  rain  dropped  heavily,  and  after  the 
flying  column  of  darkness,  light  came  in 
once  more  from  the  west.  The  sun  was 
still  above  the  horizon.  Turning  the 
rain-drops  into  opals  that  glistened  with 
the  rain-bow  hues,  the  sunshine  streamed 
over  the  forest.  The  afternoon,  that  had 
seen  such  a  terrible  battle  of  the  ele- 
no 


Cape  of  Storms 

ments,  was  to  die  in  peace,  and  light, 
and  sweetness. 

They  walked  together  to  an  eminence 
that  was  almost  bared  of  trees.  Below 
them  the  forest  swept  in  every  direction 
like  a  field  of  dark  grass.  The  sun  sent 
its  last  rays  ricochetting  over  the  waves 
of  green  to  where  they  stood,  silently. 
Another  instant,  and  the  great  bronzed 
body  was  below  the  line  of  hills  that 
made  the  horizon ;  only  the  salmon- 
colored  streaks  that  stained  the  lower 
strata  of  the  western  sky  remained  to 
tell  the  tale  of  the  sun-god's  day.  The 
air  grew  slightly  chill. 

With  that  first  forerunner  of  the  fall  of 
night,  there  came  into  the  dream  that 
Dorothy  Ware  had  moved  in,  the  chilling 
thought  of — certain  facts.  They  had 
most  assuredly  missed  the  boat  back  to 
Dresden.  Would  there  be  another  when 
they  reached  Schandau?  Could  they  get 
home  by  carriage? 

Wooton  could  only  shrug  his  shoulders 
in  despair.  He  did  not  know.  He  had 
counted  only  on  the  two  hours — the  hour 
of  the  departure  from  Dresden  and  the 
return  from  Schandau;  the  storm  had 
upset  all  his  plans.  He  was  utterly  at 
sea;  he  could  say  nothing  until  they 
reached  Schandau  and  made  inquir 
ies.  Would  she  not  let  the  thought  drop 
until  then.  Was  there  not  the  sweet 
present? 

As  they  walked  through  the  forest, 
picking  their  way  as  best  they  could, 
without  a  compass,  and  uncertain 
whether  their  direction  was  the  right 
one  or  the  wrong  one,  night  falling  sure- 
iii 


Cape  of  Storms 

ly  and  swiftly,  Wooton  held  his  arm 
about  the  young  girl's  waist,  lest  she 
stumble  or  slip.  She  looked  up  at  him 
smilingly  and  trustingly,  yet  tremulous 
at  the  behest  of  that  mysterious  some 
thing  that  drove  her  to  accept  his 
caresses  instead  of  spurning  them,  that 
made  her  quiver  at  his  touch,  like  a  wind- 
kissed  aspen,  and  had  her  still  the  storm 
within  her  by  giving  it  a  storm  to  fight. 

The  darkness  became  denser.  Their 
feet  stumbled,  and  trees  were  hardly 
distinguishable  in  the  blackness.  Had 
there  been  no  other  thought  save  that 
considering  their  condition  and  sur 
roundings,  the  girl,  at  least,  would  have 
been  trembling  in  fear  and  and  uncer 
tainty.  As  it  was,  each  loophole  for  a 
doubt  was  closed  up  by  a  kiss. 

A  streak  of  white  came  suddenly  in 
view,  and  they  found  themselves  upon 
the  chaussee  once  more.  But  in  which 
direction  lay  Chandau?  Overhead  the 
the  stars  were  shining,  but  neither  of 
these  two  could  use  the  night  heavens 
as  a  chart. 

Behind  them  came  the  dull  rumble  of 
wheels.  Around  a  turn  of  the  road  came 
carriage-lights.  As  they  flashed  close 
upon  them,  Wooton  spoke  to  the  driver. 

'  'Siefahren  nach  Schandau?"  nicht  wahr? 

The  driver  assented,  without  stopping. 
At  the  sound  of  the  questioner's  voice, 
one  of  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  had 
leaned  window  ward. 

It  was  Miss  Tremont,  of  Boston.  In 
the  glare  of  the  lanterns  she  had  caught 
the  faces  plainly. 

112 


Cape  of  Storms 

She  leaned  back  to  the  cushions,  smil 
ing  slightly. 


CHAPTER  IX 

<Jj  T'S  dark  as  an  inferno,  and  the 
It  stairs  make  a  man's  back  ache," 
C^3  said  Laurance  Stanley  dismally  to 
himself,  as  he  climbed  up  to  the  Philis 
tine  Club,  "  but,"  as  he  caught  his  breath 
again  and  consequently  began  to  feel 
more  cheerful,  "it's  comfortable  when 
you  get  there. 

Which  was  distinctly  true.  The  furni 
ture,  the  carpets,  the  hangings  in  the 
spacious,  rambling  old  rooms  were  all 
ancient  and  worn,  but  comfort  was  as 
common  to  them  all  as  was  age.  When 
you  came  in  and  slid  down  into  the  shiny 
leather  cavern  of  an  arm  chair  you  felt 
that  you  were  at  home.  At  least,  the  men 
who  were  members  did.  They  were  a 
queer  lot,  these  members.  Just  what 
they  had  in  common,  no  man  might  say; 
there  were  artists,  and  writers,  and  musi 
cians,  and  men-about-town.  To  out 
siders  it  seemed  as  if  a  certain  sort  of 
cleverness  was  the  open  sesame  to  the 
membership  rolls.  In  the  matter  of 
name,  it  was  doubtless,  the  effect  of  a 
stroke  of  humor  that  came  to  one  of  the 
founders.  Perhaps,  for  the  very  reason 
that  most  of  the  members  were  men  of 
the  sort  that  one  instinctively  knew  to  be 
modern,  and  broad  and  untramelled  by 
dogmas  or  doctrines,  the  club  had  been 
named  the  Philistine  Club.  It  was  no 


Cape  of  Storms 

longer  in  its  first  youth.  The  walls  were 
behung  with  the  portraits  of  former 
presidents — portraits  that  were  all  alike 
in  their  effect  of  displaying  an  execrable 
sort  of  painting;  it  was  evident  that  in 
its  selection  of  painters  in  ordinary  the 
club  had  lived  strictly  up  to  its  name. 
The  building  that  housed  the  club  was 
an  old  one,  on  one  of  the  busiest  business 
thoroughfares  in  the  city.  It  was  very 
convenient,  as  the  hard-working  fellows 
among  the  members  phrased  it;  in  a 
minute  you  could  drop  out  of  the  rush 
and  roar  of  the  street-traffic  into  the 
quiet  gloom  of  the  club,  a  lounge,  and 
a  book. 

Stanley  had  not  been  in  the  dark  cor 
ner  that  he  usually  affected  very  long 
before  Vanstruther  came  in,  his  beard 
more  pointed  than  ever.  He  dropped 
limply  into  a  chair,  put  his  feet  on  one 
of  the  whist  tables,  and  said,  as  he  lit  a 
cigar:  "  Do  you  know  this  is  about  the 
time  of  year  that  I  realize  that  this  town 
is  a  hole?  I  repeat  it— a  hole!  A  hole, 
moreover,  with  the  bottom  out.  I  tell 
you  there's  not  a  soul  in  town  just 
now." 

"Most  true,"  assented  Stanley,  "for 
neither  you  nor  I  have  anything  that 
deserves  the  name." 

"Bosh!  What  I  mean  is  that  the  place 
is  a  howling  desert.  Everybody  is  still 
at  the  seashore,  or  the  mountains,  or 
the  mineral  springs.  Newport  or  the 
White  Mountains,  or  Manitou,  or 
Mackinac  Island— there's  where  every 
self-respecting  person  is  at  this  time; 
not  in  this  old  sweat-box.  Why,  it's  a 
114 


Cape  of  Storms 

positive  fact  that  there  are  no  pretty 
girls  at  all  on  the  avenue  these  days;  or, 
if  there  are  any,  you  can  tell  at  a  glance 
that  they're  from  Podunk  or  Egypt." 

"  In  other  words,  there  is  a  scarcity  of 
'Mrs.Tomnoddy  received  yesterday,'  and 
'  there  will  be  a  meeting  of  the  Contribut 
ors'  Club  at  Mrs.  Mausoleum's  on  Fri 
day.'  People  who  like  to  see  their  names 
in  the  daily  papers  are  out  of  town,  so 
the  society  journalist  waileth;  is  it  not  so  ? 
It  all  comes  down  to  bread  and  butter 
in  this  country.  Just  as  soon  as  we  get 
away  from  bread  and  butter,  we'll  be 
greater  idiots  than  the  others  ever 
knew  how  to  be."  He  waved  a  hand 
carelessly  to  some  remote  space  in  which 
he  inferred  the  continent  of  Europe. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  rejoined  the 
other,  "you  are  always  great  on  mag 
niloquent  generalizations,  but  you  never 
trouble  about  the  concrete  things.  I'm 
up  a  tree  for  copy,  day  in,  day  out,  and 
I  groan  just  once,  and  what  do  you  do? 
You  moralize  loftily.  But  do  you  help 
me  with  a  real  bit  of  news?  Not  a  bit 
of  it." 

"Well,  you  know,"  Stanley  said, 
lazily,  "  I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  come  to  for  items  of  news  concerning 
le  monde  ou  I'm  s  'amuse.  But  if  you  want 
something  a  notch  or  two  lower — say 
about  the  grade  of  members  of  this  club. 
Do  you  notice  that  Dante  Belden's  sofa 
is  empty  today?" 

The  journalist  looked  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  where  an  old 
black  leather  lounge  stood.  It  was  the 
sofa  that  had  long  since  become  the 


Cape  of  Storms 

special  property,  in  the  eyes  of  the  other 
members,  of  the  artist,  Dante  Gabriel 
Belden.  He  used  to  sleep  there  a  great 
deal;  and  he  used  to  dream  also.  Oc 
casionally  he  waxed  talkative,  and  then 
there  usually  grew  up  around  him  a 
circle  of  chairs.  In  such  conclave,  there 
passed  anecdotes  that  were  delightful, 
criticisms  that  were  incisive,  and,  in 
total,  nothing  that  was  altogether  stupid. 

"  Where  is  he?"  asked  Vanstruther. 

" Where  is  who?"  It  was  Marsboro, 
the  Chronicles  artist,  that  had  sauntered 
over. 

"  Belden." 

11  Married,"  said  Stanley,  laconically. 

"  The  devil!"  exclaimed  Vanstruther, 
putting  his  cigar  down  on  the  window- 
ledge. 

"  Not  the  same,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
"Although — "  and  Stanley  paused  to 
smile — "it  might  be  interesting  to  trace 
the  relationship." 

"  Oh,  talk  straight  talk  for  a  minute, 
can't  you)  I  never  knew  the  man  was 
thinking  of  it,  " 

"Nor  did  I.  Well,  we're  all  friends 
of  his,  and  men  don't  think  any  less  of 
each  other  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  so  I'll 
tell  you  the  story.  In  my  opinion,  it's  a 
clear  case  of  '  Tomlinson,  of  Berkley 
Square  '.  However,  that's  open  to  in 
dividual  interpretation.  Belden  has  suc 
cumbed  to  a  lifelong  passion  for  Henri 
Murger?" 

Marsboro  swore  audibly.  "I  don't  see," 
he  said,  that  you're  any  plainer  than  you 
were!  What's  all  that  got  to  do  with  the 
man's  marriage?" 

116 


Cape  of  Storms 

"Everything!  Everything — the  way 
I  look  at  it,  at  least.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do,  how  saturated  he  is  with  admir 
ation  for  those  delightful  escapades  of 
the  Quartier  Latin  that  Muger  makes 
such  pretty  stories  of.  Well — he  has 
acted  up  to  them.  The  trouble  is  that 
this  is  not  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  that 
sort  of  thing  is  a  trifle  awkward  when 
you  make  a  Christian  ceremony  of  it. 
Here  are  the  facts:  Belden  and  myself 
were  com  ing  home  from  the  theatre  a  good 
while  ago,  when  we  came  to  a  couple 
that  were  decidedly  in  liquor.  The  man 
had  been  out  to  dinner,  or  a  dance  or 
somewhere;  he  had  his  dress  clothes  on, 
and  his  juhite  shirt  was  still  immaculate. 
His  silk  hat  was  on  straight  enough. 
His  walk  was  the  only  thing  that  be 
trayed  him.  He  had  his  arm  around  the 
girl.  When  we  passed  them,  or  began 
to,  we  could  hear  that  the  girl  was  cry 
ing.  Her  boots  were  shabby  and  the 
skirt  that  trailed  over  them  was  badly 
fringed  at  the  bottom;  above  the  waist 
she  had  on  such  sham  finery  and  her 
face,  once  pretty,  had  such  a  stale, 
hunted  look,  as  told  plainly  to  what 
class  she  belonged.  The  class  that  is 
no  class  at  all,  and  yet  that  has  always 
been.  "I'm  afraid  of  you — you've  been 
drinking — let  me  go,"  she  was  crying 
out.  Belden  stopped  at  once.  The 
man  put  his  arm  more  tightly  about  her 
waist,  and  tried,  drunkenly,  to  kiss  her. 
The  girl  wrenched  herself  almost  away 
from  him.  She  screamed  out,  "Let 
loose  of  me,  you  beast!"  Then  she  be 
gan  to  moan  a  little.  That  settled  Bel 
li; 


Cape  of  Storms 

den.  He  walked  in  front  of  the  man  In 
the  white  shirt-front,  and  told  him  to 
let  the  woman  go.  The  man  said  he 
would  see  him  damned  first.  The  words 
had  hardly  tortured  their  stuttering  way 
from  the  drunken  man's  mouth,  before 
Belden  gave  him  a  blow  between  the 
eyes  that  sent  the  fellow  to  the  side 
walk.  He  lay  there  cursing,  drunkenly. 
Belden  asked  the  woman,  quietly,  where 
she  lived.  She  looked  at  him  and 
laughed.  Laughed  aloud!  I've  seen 
most  things,  in  my  time,  but  that 
woman's  laugh,  and  the  look  on  her  face 
are  about  the  most  grewsome  things  I 
remember.  She  laughed,  you  know  as 
if  someone  had  just  told  her  that  he 
would  like  to  walk  down  to  hell  with  her. 
She  laughed  in  that  high,  unnatural  key, 
in  which  only  women  of  that  sort  can 
laugh;  it  was  a  laugh  that  had  in  it  the 
scorn  of  the  Devil  for  his  toy,  man.  There 
was  in  it  a  memory  of  a  time  when  she 
might  have  unblushingly  answered  that 
question  of  'Where  do  you  live?'  There 
was  in  it  something  like  pity  for  this  in 
nocent  who  asked  her  that  question  in 
good  faith,  or  seemed  to.  Then  she  stead 
ied  herself  against  a  lamp-post,  and 
said,  with  the  whine  coming  back  into 
her  voice,  'What  d'ye  want  to  know  for?' 
'I'll  see  that  you  get  there  all  right, 'said 
Belden.  The  woman  laughed  again. 
She  took  her  hand  away  from  the  lamp 
post,  and  began  an  effort  to  walk  on 
without  replying;  but  in  an  instant  she 
swayed,  and,  had  not  Belden  jumped 
toward  her  and  put  an  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  would  have  fallen. 
118 


Cape  of  Storms 

"She  cursed  feebly.  'Tell  me  where  you 
live?'  Belden  persevered.  His  voice  was 
harsher  and  almost  a  command.  She 
stammered  out  more  sneering  evasions; 
then  she  flung  out  the  name  of  the  dis 
mal  street  where  she  had  such  residence 
as  that  sort  ever  has.  What  do  you 
suppose  uhat  man  Belden  did?  Hailed 
a  cab,  put  the  woman  in,  and  got  in 
after  her.  Simply  shouted  a  hasty  good 
night  to  me,  and  drove  off.  Well, — 
that's  where  it  all  began. "  Stanley  stop 
ped,  got  up,  and  walked  over  to  the 
wall,  pressing  a  button  that  showed  there. 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say — "  began 
one  of  the  others,  with  wonder  and  in 
credulity  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  though.  Russell,  take 
the  orders,  will  you?  What'll  you  men 
drink — or  smoke?  I've  been  talking, 
and  my  threat's  dry." 

The  darky  waited  patiently  until  the 
several  orders  had  been  given.  Then 
he  glided  away  as  noiselessly  as  he  had 
come. 

"There  is  really  where  the  story,  as 
far  as  I  know  it,  ends,"  Stanley  went  on, 
after  he  had  cooled  his  throat  a  little, 
"The  other  end  of  it  came  to  me  from 
Belden  the  other  day.  'Got  anything  to 
do  Thursday  evening?'  he  asked  me. 
We  had  been  talking  of  dry-point  etch 
ing.  I  told  him  I  thought  not.  'Then 
will  you  help  me  jump  off?'  he  went  on. 
Then  the  whole  scene  of  that  winter- 
night  flashed  back  to  me  in  a  sort  of 
wave.  I  felt,  before  he  answered  my 
question  for  further  information,  what 
his  answer  would  be,  'Yes,'  he  said, 
119 


Cape  of  Storms 

'it's  the  same  girl.  I  know  her  better 
than  I  did.  Her's  is  a  sad  case;  very 
sad.  I'm  lifting  her  up  out  of  it.'  I 
didn't  say  anything,  he  hadn't  asked  my 
opinion.  As  between  man  and  man 
there  was  nothing  for  me  to  cavil  at;  I 
was  invited  to  a  friend's  wedding,  that 
was  all.  I  went.  I  was  the  only  other 
person  present,  barring  the  old  German 
minister  that  Belden  fished  out  from 
some  dark  corner.  It  was  the  queerest 
proceeding!  Belden  had  brought  the 
girl  up  into  a  righteous  neighborhood 
some  months  ago,  it  seemed;  had  been 
paying  her  way;  the  neighbors  thought 
she  was  a  person  of  some  means,  I  sup 
pose.  He  introduced  me  to  her  on  the 
morning  of  his  wedding-day;  I  think  she 
remembered  me,  although  she  has  caught 
manners  enough  from  Belden  or  her  past 
to  conceal  what  she  felt.  And  so — they 
were  married." 

"My  God!"  groaned  Vanstruther, 
"what  an  awful  thing  to  do!  Lifting 
her  up  out  of  it,  does  he  say?  No!  He's 
bringing  himself  down  to  it!  That's 
ivhat  it  always  ends  in.  Always.  Oh, 
I've  known  cases!  Every  man  thinks  he 
is  going  to  succeed  where  the  others 
have  failed.  For  they  have  failed,  there  is 
no  doubt  about  that!  Look  at  the  case 
of  Gripler,  the  Elevated  magnate! — he 
did  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  world 
says  and  does  the  same  old  thing  it  has 
always  done — sneers  a  little,  and  cuts 
her!  He  is  having  the  most  magnificent 
house  in  all  Gotham  built  for  himself,  I 
understand,  and  they  are  going  to  move 
there,  but  do  you  suppose  for  a  minute 
120 


Cape  of  Storms 

they  will  ever  get  into  the  circle  of  the 
elect?  Not  in  a  thousand  years!  Don't 
misunderstand  me:  I'm  not  considering 
merely  the  society  of  the  'society  column, ' 
I'm  thinking  of  society  at  large,  the  en 
tire  human  body,  the  mass  of  individuals 
scripturally  enveloped  in  the  phrase  'thy 
neighbor.'  The  taint  never  fades;  a  sur 
face  gloss  may  hide  the  spot,  but  some 
day  it  blazons  itself  to  the  world  again 
in  all  it's  unpleasantness.  Take  this 
case  of  our  friend  Belden.  We,  who 
sit  here,  are  all  men  who  know  the  world 
we  live  in;  we  will  treat  Belden  himself 
as  we  have  always  done.  We  will  even 
argue,  in  that  exaggerated  spirit  of 
broadness  that  might  better  be  called 
laxness,  typical  of  our  time,  that  the  man 
has  done  a  braver  thing  than  ourselves 
had  courage  for  had  the  temptation 
come  to  us.  We  will  acknowledge  that 
his  motive  was  a  good  one.  He  honestly 
believes  that  he  will  educate  the  girl  in 
to  the  higher  life.  He  thinks  the  past 
can  be  sunk  into  the  pit  of  forgetfulness; 
but  there  is  no  pit  deep  enough  to  hide 
the  past.  We  will  say  that  he  is  putting 
into  action  what  the  rest  of  the  radicals 
continually  vapor  about;  the  equal  con 
sideration,  in  matters  of  morality,  of 
man  and  woman.  He  is  remembering 
that  a  man,  we  argue,  should  in 
strict  ethics  demand  of  a  woman  no 
more  than  himself  can  bring.  But,  mark 
my  words,  the  centuries  have  been  wiser 
than  we  knew.  It  is  ordained  that  the 
man  who  shall  take  to  wife  a  woman  that 
has  what  the  world  meaningly  call  'a 
past,'  shall  see  the  ghost  of  that  past 
121 


Cape  of  Storms 

shaking  the  piece  of  his  house  for  ever 
and  ever." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 
Beyond  the  curtains,  someone  came  in 
and  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa. 
Marsboro,  looking  vaguely  out  at  win 
dow,  said,  somewhat  irrelevalantly,  "I 
suppose  that  will  be  the  end  of  the  Sun 
day  evening  seances?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Stanley. 
"If  I  know  anything  about  Belden,  I 
shall  not  be  surprised  if  he  asks  us  all 
up  there  again  one  of  these  evenings. 
He  has  lived  so  long  in  Free-and-easy- 
dom  that  no  thought  of  what  people  call 
'the  proprieties'  will  ever  touch  him." 

"Heigh!"  Vanstruther  stretched  him 
self  reflectively.  "It's  a  queer  life  a 
man  leads,  a  queer  life!  God  send  us 
all  easy  consciences!" 

"Don't  be  pathetic!"  Stanley  frowned. 
"The  life  is  generally  of  our  own  choos 
ing,  and  if  we  play  the  game  we  should 
pay  the  forfeits.  Besides  which,  it  is 
one  of  the  few  things  I  believe  in,  that 
the  man  who  has  tasted  of  sin,  and  in 
whose  mouth  the  bitters  of  revulsion 
have  corroded,  is  the  only  one  who  can 
ever  safely  be  called  good.  It  is  differ 
ent  with  a  woman.  If  once  she  tastes — 
there's  an  end  of  her!  Oh,  I  know  very 
well  that  we  never  think  this  way  at  first. 
At  first — when  we  are  very  young — we 
think  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
delightful  as  being  for  ever  and  ever  as 
white  as  the  driven  snow;  then  Life  sends 
his  card,  we  make  his  acquaintance,  he 
introduces  us  to  some  of  his  fastest 
friends,  and  we,  h'm,  begin  to  change 
122 


Cape  of  Storms 

our  views  a  little.  In  accordance  with 
the  faint  soiling  that  is  gradually  cover 
ing  up  the  snowy  hues  of  our  being,  the 
strictness  of  our  opinions  on  the  matter 
of  whiteness  relaxes  notably.  Arm  in 
arm  with  Life,  we  step  slowly  down  the 
ladder.  Then,  if  we  are  in  luck,  there 
is  a  reaction,  and  we  go  up  again — so 
far! — only  so  far,  and  never  any  further; 
if  we  are  particularly  fond  of  Life,  we 
are  likely  to  get  very  far  down  indeed; 
and  the  end  is  that  Life  bids  us  farewell 
of  his  own  accord.  That  is  the  history 
of  a  modern  man  of  the  world." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Mars- 
boro,  "I  know,  in  my  own  case  at  least, 
that  I  can  remember  distinctly  how 
beautiful  my  young  ideal  was.  But  Life 
is  jealous  of  ideals;  he  shatters  them 
.  with  a  single  whiff  of  experience.  And 
it  happened  as  you  just  now  said:  as  I 
descended,  my  ideals  descended.  I 
only  hope — he  sighed,  half  in  jest,  half 
in  earnest, — "that  I  will  begin  the  up 
ward  climb  and  succeed  in  winning  up." 
"Ah,  assented  Stanley,  "that  is  always 
the  interesting  problem.  Which  it  will 
be:  the  elevator  with  the  index  pointing 
to  'Up'  or  the  one  destined  'Down.' 
You  needn't  look  so  curiously  at  me, 
Van,  I  know  what  you  are  wondering. 
Well  you  can  rest  easy  in  the  assurance 
I  give  you:  the  nether  slopes  are  beckon 
ing  to  me.  I  became  aware  of  it  long 
ago,  reconciled  moreover.  I  live  merely 
for  the  moment.  My  f  senses  must 
amuse  me  until  there  is  nothing  left  of 
them;  that  is  all.  But  look  here:  don't 
think  there  is  no  reverse  to  the  medal. 
123 


Cape  of  Storms 

I  have,  fate  knows,  my  moments  of  be 
ing  horrified  at  myself.  It  is,  I  presume, 
at  the  times  when  the  ghost  of  my  con 
science  comes  to  ask  why  it  was  mur 
dered."  He  appeared  to  be  concentrat 
ing  all  his  attention  on  the  ashes  at  the 
end  of  his  cigarette.  "Why,  don't  you 
know  that  there  is  no  longer  any  mean 
ing  for  me  in  any  of  those  words:  honor, 
and  truth,  and  virtue?  I  have  no  stand 
ards,  except  my  digestion,  and  my 
nerves.  I  don't  mistreat  my  wife  simply 
because  it  would  come  back  to  me  in  a 
thousand  little  annoyances  that  would 
grate  on  my  nerves."  He  sipped  slowly  at 
the  glass  by  his  side.  "And  I'm  not 
worse  than  some  other  men!" 

"True.  All  of  which  is  a  pity.  But 
we've  got  off  the  subject.  The  villainy 
of  ourselves  is  too  patent  a  proposition. 
The  question  is,  by  what  right  we  con 
tinue  to  expect  of  the  women  we  marry 
that  which  they  dare  not  expect  of  us. 

"Are  you  the  mouthpiece  of  the  New 
Woman?  Well,  the  Creator  made  man 
king,  and  the  laws  of  physiology  cannot 
be  twisted  to  suit  the  New  Woman. 
For  it  is,  in  essentials,  unfortunately  a 
question  of  physiological  consequences. 
Wherefore,  suppose  we  stop  the  argu 
ment.  This  is  not  a  medical  congress!" 

Stanley  went  over  to  the  desk  where 
the  periodicals  lay,  and  picking  one  up, 
began,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  to 
let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  printed  pages. 

"Will  you  go,  if  you're  asked?"  Mars- 
boro  said,  presently. 

"I?"   Stanley   looked   up    carelessly. 
"Certainly.      As  far  as  I'm  concerned  a 
124 


Cape  of  Storms 

man  may  marry  the  devil  and  all  his  an 
gels.  But  I  wouldn't  take  my  wife  or 
my  sister." 

Vanstruther  laughed  dryly.  "If  women 
were  to  apply  the  tit-for-tat  principle," 
he  said,  "what  terribly  small  visiting 
lists  most  of  us  fellows  would  have!" 

But  Stanley  disdained  further  discus 
sion,  and  the  other  men  got  up  to  go. 
When  they  had  passed  beyond  the  cur 
tains  Stanley  laid  down  the  paper  he 
had  been  reading,  and  smiled  to  himself. 
He  was  wondering  why  he  had  been  led 
into  this  waste  of  breath.  A  man's  life 
was  a  man's  life,  and  what  was  the  use 
of  cavilling  at  facts!  The  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  take  life  lightly  and  to  let 
nothing  matter.  Also,  one  must  amuse 
oneself!  If  the  manner  of  the  amuse 
ment  was  distasteful  or  hurtful  to  others, 
why — so  much  the  worse  for  the  others! 

So  musing,  Laurence  Stanley  passed 
into  a  light  slumber,  and  dreamed  of 
impossible  virtues. 

But  Dick  Lancaster,  who,  from  the 
sofa  beyond  the  curtains,  had  heard  all 
of  this  conversation,  did  not  dream  of 
pleasant  things  that  night.  In  fact,  he 
spent  a  white  night.  Like  a  flood  the 
horrors  of  self-revelation  had  come  upon 
him  at  sound  of  those  arguments  and 
dissections;  he  saw  himself  as  he  was, 
compared  with  what  he  had  been;  he 
shuddered  and  shivered  in  the  grip  of 
remorse. 

In  the  white  light  of  shame  he  saw 
whither  the  wish  to  taste  of  life  had  led 
him;  he  realized  that  something  of  that 
hopeless  corruption  that  Stanley  had 
125 


Cape  of  Storms 

spoken  of  was  already  etched  into  his 
conscience,  Oh,  the  terrible  temptation 
of  all  those  shibboleths,  that  told  us  that 
we  must  live  while  we  may!  He  felt, 
now  that  he  had  seen  how  deep  was  the 
abyss  below  him,  that  his  feet  were  long 
since  on  the  decline,  and  that  from  a 
shy  attempt  at  worldliness  he  had  gone 
on  to  what,  to  his  suddenly  re-awakened 
conscience,  constituted  dissoluteness. 

To  the  man  of  the  world,  perhaps, 
his  slight  defections  from  the  puritanic 
code  would  have  seemed  ridiculously 
vague.  But,  he  repeated  to  himself  with 
quickened  anguish,  if  he  began  to  con 
sider  things  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
world,  he  was  utterly  lost;  he  would  soon 
be  like  those  others. 

He  got  up  and  opened  the  window  of 
his  bed-room.  Below  him  was  the  hum 
of  the  cable;  a  dense  mist  obscured  the 
electric  lights,  and  the  town  seemed 
reeking  with  a  white  sweat.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  a  prisoner.  He  began  to  feel 
a  loathing  for  this  town  that  had  made 
him  dispise  himself  so  much.  The  roar 
of  it  sounded  like  a  wild  animal's. 

Then  a  breeze  came  and  swept  the 
mist  away,  and  left  the  streets  shining 
with  silvery  moisture.  Lights  crept  out 
of  the  darkness,  and  the  veil  passed  from 
the  stars.  The  wild  animal  seemed  to 
be  smiling.  But  the  watcher  at  the  win 
dow  merely  shrank  back  a  little,  closing 
the  window.  Fascinating,  as  a  serpent; 
poisonous  as  a  cobra!  The  glitter  and 
glamour  of  society;  the  devil-may-care 
fascinations  of  Bohemia;  they  had  lured 
him  to  such  agony  as  this! 
126 


Cape  of  Storms 

Such  agony?  What,  you  ask,  had 
this  young  man  to  be  in  agony  about? 
He  was  a  very  nice  young  man — all  the 
world  would  have  told  you  that!  Ah, 
but  was  there  never  a  moment  in  your 
lives,  my  dear  fellow-sinners — you  men 
and  women  of  the  world — when  it  came 
to  your  conscience  like  a  sword-thrust, 
that  the  beautiful  bloom  of  your  youth 
and  innocence  was  gone  from  you  for 
ever  and  that  ever  afterward  there  would 
be  a  bitter  memory  or  a  bitterer  forget- 
fulness?  And  was  that  not  agony?  Ah, 
we  all  hold  the  masks  up  before  our 
faces,  but  sometimes  our  arms  tire,  and 
they  slip  down,  and  then  how  haggard  we 
look!  Perhaps,  if  we  had  listened  to 
our  consciences  when  they  were  quicker, 
we  would  not  have  those  lines  of  care 
upon  our  faces  now.  You  say  you  have 
a  complexion  and  a  conscience  as  clear 
as  the  dew?  Ah,  well,  then  I  am  not 
addressing  you,  of  course.  But  how 
about  your  neighbors?  Ah,  you  admit — ? 
Well,  then  we  will  each  of  us  moralize 
about  our  neighbor.  It  is  so  much 
pleasanter,  so  much  more  diverting! 


CHAPTER    X 

ITH  the  coming  of  morning, 
Lancaster  shook  himself  out 
of  his  painful  reveries,  and 
decided  that  he  must  escape  from  this 
metropolitan  prison,  if  for  ever  so  short 
a  time.  He  would  go  out  into  the 
country,  home.  He  would  go  where 
127 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  air  was  pure,  and  all  life  was  not 
tainted.  He  walked  to  a  telegraph 
office  and  sent  a  dispatch  to  his  mother, 
telling  of  his  coming. 

Then  he  went  for  a  walk  in  the  park. 
Now  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  out  of  this  choking  dungeon  for  a 
while  he  felt  suddenly  buoyant,  re 
freshed.  He  tried  to  forget  Stanley  and 
the  Imperial  Theatre,  and  all  other  un 
pleasant  memories  of  that  sort.  Some 
of  the  park  policemen  concluded  that 
this  was  a  young  man  who  was  feeling 
very  cheerful  indeed — else,  why  such 
fervid  whistling? 

When  he  got  to  his  studio  he  found 
some  people  waiting  for  him.  *  They 
had  some  commercial  work  for  him  to 
do.  He  shook  his  head  at  all  of  them. 

"I'm  going  out  of  town  for  a  week," 
he  said,  "and  I  can  do  nothing  until  I 
return.  If  this  is  a  case  of  '  rush'  you'll 
have  to  take  it  somewhere  else." 

He  turned  the  key  in  the  door  with  a 
wonderful  feeling  of  elation,  and  the 
pinning  of  the  small  explanatory  notice 
on  his  door  almost  made  him  laugh 
aloud.  He  thought  of  the  joy  that  a  jail 
bird  must  feel  when  he  sees  the  gates 
opening  to  let  him  into  the  free  world. 
No  more  elevated  roads,  no  more  cable 
cars,  no  more  clanging  of  wheels  over 
granite,  no  more  deafening  shouts  of 
newsboys;  no  more  tortuous  windings 
through  streets  crowded  with  hurrying 
barbarians;  no  more  passing  the  bewil 
dering  glances  of  countless  handsome 
women;  no  more — town! 

There  was  a  train  in  half  an  hour.  He 
128 


Cape  of  Storms 

bought  his  ticket  and  strolled  up  and 
down  the  platform.  He  wondered  how 
the  dear  old  village  would  look.  He  had 
been  away  only  a  little  over  a  year,  and 
yet,  how  much  had  happened  in  that 
short  time!  Then  he  smiled,  thinking 
of  the  intangible  nature  of  those  hap 
penings.  There  was  nothing, — nothing 
that  would  make  as  much  as  a  para 
graph  in  the  daily  paper.  Yet  how  it 
had  changed  him,  this  subtle  flow  of 
soul-searing  circumstances!  It  was  of 
such  curious  woof  that  modern  life  was 
made;  so  rich  in  things  that  in  them 
selves  were  dismally  commonplace  and 
matters  of  course,  and  yet  in  total  exerted 
such  strong  influences;  so  rich,  too,  in 
crime  and  casuality,  that,  though  served 
up  as  daily  dishes,  yet  seemed  always 
far  and  outside  of  ourselves! 

The  novel  he  purchased  to  while 
away  the  hours  between  the  town  and 
Lincolnville  confirmed  his  thoughts  in 
this  direction.  It  was  one  of  the  mod 
ern  pictures  of  "life  as  it  is."  There  was 
nothing  of  romance,  hardly  any  action; 
it  was  nearly  all  introspection  and  con 
templations  of  the  complexity  of  mod 
ern  existence.  The  story  bored  him 
immensely,  and  yet  he  felt  that  it  was  a 
voice  of  the  time.  It  was  hard  to  in 
vest  today  with  romance. 

Was  it,  he  wondered,  a  real  differ 
ence,  or  was  it  merely  the  difference  in 
the  point  of  view?  Perhaps  there  was 
still  romance  abroad,  but  our  minds 
had  become  too  analytical  to  see  the 
picture  of  it? — too  much  engaged  in 
observing  the  quality  of  the  paint? 
129 


Cape  of  Storms 

His  mother  was  waiting  for  him  at 
the  station.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  how 
proud  she  was  of  this  tall  young  son  of 
hers,  and  how  wistfully  she  looked  deep 
into  his  eyes.  "  You're  looking  pale, 
Dick,"  she  said,  holding  him  at  the 
stretch  of  her  arms.  "And  your  eyes 
look  like  they  needed  sleep." 

Dick  gave  a  little  forced  laugh  and 
patted  his  mother's  hand. 

"Yes,  I  guess  you're  right  mother.  I 
need  a  little  fresh  air  and  a  rest." 

"Ah,  you  shall  have  both,  my  boy. 
And' now  tell  me  all  you've  been  doing 
up  there  in  that  big  place." 

They  walked  down  to  the  little  house 
wherein  Dick  had  first  seen  the  light  of 
this  world.  He  looked  taller  than  ever 
beside  the  little  woman  who  kept  look 
ing  him  over  so  wistfully.  He  told  her 
many  things,  but  he  felt  that  he  was 
talking  to  her  in  a  language  that  was 
rusty  on  his  lips,  the  language  of  the 
country,  of  simplicity  and  truth.  The 
language  of  the  world,  in  which  his 
tongue  was  now  glib,  would  be  so  full 
of  mysteries  to  this  sweet  mother  of  his 
that  he  must  needs  eschew  it  for  the 
nonce.  It  was  a  small  thing,  but  he  felt 
it  as  an  evidence  of  the  changes  that 
had  been  wrought  in  him. 

He  told  her  of  his  work,  of  his  career. 
Of  the  Terch,  of  his  subsequent  rent 
ing  of  a  studio,  and  free-lance  life.  Yes, 
he  was  making  money.  He  was  inde 
pendent;  he  had  his  own  hours;  work 
came  to  him  so  readily  that  he  was  in  a 
position  to  refuse  such  as  pleased  him 
least.  But,  he  sighed,  it  was  all  in 
130 


Cape  of  Storms 

black-and-white,  so  far.  Paint  loomed 
up,  as  before,  merely  as  a  golden  dream. 
In  illustrating  and  decorating,  using 
black-and-white  mediums,  that  was 
where  the  money  lay,  and  he  supposed 
he  would  have  to  stick  to  that  for  a 
time.  But  he  was  saving  money  for  a 
trip  abroad. 

They  talked  on  and  on  until  nearly 
midnight.  He  asked  after  some  of  his 
old  acquaintances;  he  listened  patiently 
to  his  mother's  gentle  gossip  and  tried 
to  feel  interested. 

"The  Wares  are  back,"  explained 
Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"  Ah,"  Dick  looked  up  quickly.  "Does 
Dorothy  look  well?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  though  I'm  bound 
I  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  her  so  to  her 
face.  She  looks  just  like  you  do,  Dick, 
— kinder  fagged  out." 

"Yes.  They  say  traveling  is  hard 
work.  And  her  mother?  " 

"Oh,  she's  about  the  same  as  usual. 
Looks  stouter,  maybe." 

"I  must  get  over  and  call  there,  be 
fore  I  get  back  to  town,"  he  said,  reflect 
ively.  "Well,  mother,  I  suppose  I'm 
keeping  you  up  beyond  your  regular 
time.  I'm  a  trifle  tired,  too.  So  good 
night." 

He  kissed  her  and  passed  up  stairs  to 
his  old  room.  There  were  the  same 
pictures  that  he  had  decorated  the  walls 
with  a  few  years  ago.  He  smiled;  they 
were,  fortunately,  very  crude  compared 
to  the  work  he  was  doing  now.  When 
all  was  dark,  he  lay  awake  for  a  long 
time,  drinking  in  the  deep  silence  of  the 
131 


Cape  of  Storms 

place.  He  could  hear  the  chirrup  of 
the  crickets  over  in  the  meadows,  and 
from  far  over  the  western  hills  came  the 
deep  boom  of  a  locomotive's  whistle. 
The  incessant  roar  of  the  town,  in  which 
even  the  shrillest  of  individual  noises  are 
swallowed  into  one  huge  conglomerate, 
was  utterly  gone.  He  could  hear  the 
wind  slightly  swaying  the  branches;  the 
deep  blue  of  the  star-spotted  sky  was 
full  of  a  caressing  silence.  The  peace 
of  it  all  soothed  him,  and  ushered  him 
into  deep,  refreshing  sleep. 

The  sun  touched  him  early  in  the 
morning,  and  seeing  the  beauty  of  the 
dawning  day,  he  dressed  quickly  and 
went  quietly  down  stairs  and  out,  for  a 
stroll  about  the  dear  old  village.  He 
passed  the  familiar  houses,  smiling  to 
himself.  He  thought  of  all  the  quaint 
and  queer  characters  in  a  little  place  of 
this  sort.  Presently  he  left  the  region  of 
houses  and  passed  into  the  woods  that 
were  beginning  to  blush  at  the  approach 
of  their  snow-clad  bridegroom.  The 
picture  of  the  sun  rising  over  the  fringe 
of  trees,  gilding  the  browned  leaves 
with  a  burnish  that  blazed  and  sparkled, 
filled  him  with  artistic  delight.  He  said 
to  himself  that  after  he  had  been  abroad, 
and  after  his  hand  was  grown  cunning 
in  colors,  he  would  ask  for  no  better 
subject  than  these  October  woods  of  the 
West.  He  sat  down  on  the  log  of  a  tree 
and  watched  the  golden,  crescent  lamp 
of  day.  He  had  forgotten  the  town 
utterly,  for  the  moment,  and  for  the 
moment  he  was  happy. 

But  the  sun's  progress  warned  him 
132 


Cape  of  Storms 

that  it  was  time  to  start  back  to  the 
house.  With  swinging  stride  he  passed 
over  the  highway,  over  the  slopes  that 
led  to  the  village.  Suddenly  he  heard 
his  named  called,  and  turning,  saw  a 
tall  figure  hastening  toward  him. 

It  was  Mr.  Fairly,  the  minister. 

"My  dear  Dick, "he  said,  shaking  the 
young  man's  hand,  "I  am  rejoiced  to 
see  you.  We  have  heard  of  you,  of 
course;  we  have  heard  of  you.  But  that 
is  not  seeing  you.  Let  me  look  at  you!" 

Dick  smiled.   "I've  grown,  I  believe." 

"Yes.  In  stature  and  wisdom,  I  dare 
say.  But — "  He  sliped  his  arm  within 
Dick's,  and  walked  with  him  silently  for 
a  few  minutes.  "The  town,"  he  went 
on,  "has  a  brand  of  its  own,  and  all  that 
live  there,  wear  it."  They  passed  a  boy 
going  to  school.  "Look  at  that 
youngster.  Isn't  he  bright-eyed!"  A 

Sfarm  wagon  drove  by,  the  farmer  and 
his  wife  sitting  side  by  side  on  the 
springless  seat.  "Did  you  get  the 
sparkle  of  their  faces?"  said  the  minis 
ter.  "Their  skins  were  tanned  and 
rough,  no  doubt,  but  their  eyes  were 
clear.  Now,  Dick,  your  eyes  have  been 
reading  many  pages  of  the  Book  of 
Knowledge  and  they  are  tired.  I  know, 
my  boy,  I  know.  We  buzz  about  the 
electric  arc-light  till  we  singe  our  wings, 
and  then,  perhaps,  we  are  wiser.  Have 
you  been  singeing  your's?" 

'*  Not  enough,  I'm  afraid.  The  fasci 
nation  is  still  there.  Sometimes  it  is 
the  fascination  of  danger,  sometimes  of 
repulsion;  but  it  is  always  fascination." 

"Ah,  so  you  have  got  to  the  repul- 
133 


Cape  of  Storms 

sion!"  The  minister  spoke  softly,  al 
most  as  if  to  himself.  "And  you  no 
longer  think  the  world  is  all  beautiful, 
and  sometimes  you  wonder  whether 
virtue  is  a  dream  or  a  reality  ?  I  know, 
I  know!  And  sometimes  you  wish  you 
were  blind  again,  as  once  you  were; 
and  you  want  to  wipe  away  the  taste  of 
the  fruit  of  knowledge?  " 

Dick  said  nothing. 

"  Those  who  chose  the  world  as  their 
arena,"  the  minister  went  on,  "must 
suffer  the  world's  jars  and  jeers.  The 
world  is  a  magnet  that  draws  all  the 
men  of  courage;  it  sucks  their  talents 
and  their  virtues  and  spews  them  forth, 
as  often  as  not  into  the  waters  of  ob 
livion.  To  swim  ashore  needs  wonder 
ful  strength!  Here  in  the  calmer  waters 
we  are  but  tame  fellows;  we  miss  most 
of  the  prizes,  but,  we  also  miss  the  dan 
gers.  Perhaps,  some  day,  Dick,  you'll 
come  back  to  us  again?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  But  I 
don't  think  so.  That  other  taste  is  bit 
ter,  perhaps,  but  it  holds  one  captive. 
And  I'm  changed,  you  see;  the  old 
things  that  delighted  me  once  are  stale, 
and  I  need  the  perpetual  excitation  of 
the  town's  unceasing  changes.  The  town 
is  a  juggernaut  with  prismatic  wheels." 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  minis 
ter's  house. 

"  I  haven't  preached  to  you,  have  I 
Dick?" 

Dick  looked  at  the  minister  quickly. 
There  was  a  sort  of  wistfulness  behind 
the  eye-glasses,  and  a  half  smile  beneath 
the  waving  mustache. 
134 


Cape  of  Storms 

"  No.     I  wish  you  would!  " 

"Ah,  Dick,  I  can't!  I'm  not  compe 
tent.  You're  in  one  world,  and  I'm  in 
another.  Too  many  make  the  mistake 
that  they  can  live  in  the  valleys  and  yet 
tell  the  mountaineers  how  to  climb.  But, 
Dick,  whatever  you  do,  keep  your  self- 
respect!  In  this  complex  time  of  ours, 
circumstances  and  comparisons  alter 
nearly  everything,  and  one  sometimes 
wonders  whether  b-a-d  does  not,  after 
all,  spell  good;  but  self-respect  should 
stand  against  all  confusions!  Goodbye, 
Dick.  Remember  we're  all  fond  of  you! 
I  go  to  a  convention  in  one  of  the  neigh 
boring  towns  tonight,  and  I  won't  see 
vou  again  before  you  go  back.  Good 
bye!" 

Dick  carried  the  picture  of  the  kindly, 
military-looking  old  face  with  him  for 
many  minutes.  If  there  were  more  such 
ministers  !  He  recalled  some  of  the 
pale,  cold  clergymen  he  had  met  at  var 
ious  houses  in  town,  and  remembered 
how  repellant  their  haughty  assumption 
of  superiority  has  been  to  him.  He  was 
still  musing  over  his  dear  old  friend's 
counsel,  when  he  noticed  that  he  was 
approaching  the  house  where  the  Wares 
lived.  There  was  the  veranda,  blood 
red  with  it's  creeper-clothing,  and  full 
of  memories  for  him. 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  as  he  drew 
nearer.  He  was  thinking  of  the  last 
time  that  he  had  seen  Dorothy  Ware. 
He  recalled,  with  a  queer  smile,  her 
parting  words:  'Goodbye,  Dick,  be 
good!'  He  realized  that  the  Dick  of 
that  day  and  the  Dick  of  today  were 

135 


Cape  of  Storms 

two  very  differing  persons.  And  she, 
too,  doubtless,  would  no  longer  be  the 
Dorothy  Ware  he  once  had  known. 
Something  of  fierce  hate  toward  the 
world  and  fate  came  to  him  as  he 
thought  of  the  way  of  human  plans  and 
planning  were  truthlessly  canceled  by 
the  decrees  of  change.  Had  he  been 
good?  Bah,  the  thought  of  it  made  him 
sneer.  If  these  memories  were  not  to 
be  driven  away  he  would  presently  set 
tle  down  into  determined,  desperate 
melancolia. 

The  conflict,  in  this  man,  was  always 
between  the  intrinsic  good  and  the 
veneer  of  vice  that  the  world  puts  on. 
In  most  men  the  veneer  chokes  every 
thing  else.  When  those  men  read  this, 
if  they  ever  do,  they  will  wonder  why 
in  the  world  this  young  man  was  tor 
turing  himself  with  fancies?  But  the 
men  whose  outer  veneer  has  not  yet 
choked  the  soul  will  remember  and  un 
derstand. 

Dorothy  Ware  was  on  the  veranda, 
gathering  some  of  the  vine's  dead  leaves 
when  Dick's  step  sounded  on  the  wood 
en  sidewalk.  As  he  saw  her,  his  face 
lit  up.  He  never  noticed  that  the  flush 
on  her  face  was  of  another  sort. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Dick?  Come  up 
and  shake  hands." 

Then  they  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other  silently  for  an  instant.  We're 
both  a  little  older,"  said  Dick.  "  But  I 
suppose  we  have  so  much  to  talk  about 
that  we'll  have  to  make  this  a  very  pass 
ing  meeting.  Besides,  mother's  waiting 
136 


Cape  of  Storms 

for  me;  I've  been  for  a  morning  walk, 
you  see.  You'll  be  at  the  great  and 
only  Fair,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  almost  forgotten  how 
it  looks.  I  do  hope  they  will  have  a  fine 
day  for  it." 

Miss  Ware  looked  after  him  wistfully. 
She  thought  of  the  thunderstorm  in  the 
forest  at  Schandau,  and  sighed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

H  E  first  day  of  the  County  Fair 
was  hardly  eventful.  The  farm- 
ers  were  busy  bringing  in  their 
exhibits  of  stock  and  produce,  and  ar 
ranging  them  properly  for  the  inspection 
of  the  judges.  It  is  all  merely  by  way 
of  preparation  for  the  big  day,  the  day 
on  which  the  trotting  and  running  races 
take  place. 

Fortunately,  it  was  a  cloudless  day. 
Shortly  after  sunrise  clouds  of  dust  be 
gan  to  fill  the  air.  All  the  roads  leading 
fairwards  are  filled  all  morning  with 
every  sort  and  condition  of  vehicle. 
Farmers  come  from  the  farthest  boun- 
deries  of  the  county,  bringing  their  fami 
lies;  the  young  men  bringing  their  "best 
girls."  This  volume  of  traffic  soon  re 
duces  the  road-bed  to  a  fine,  powdery 
dust,  that  rises,  mist-like  and  obscures 
the  face  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Soon  the  presence  of  the  Fair  is  felt 
in  the  village  itself,  and  the  "square" 
resounds  to  the  cries  of  the  omnibus 
drivers  soliciting  fares.  "All  aboard, 

137 


Cape  of  Storms 

now,  for  the  Fair  Grounds,  only  ten 
cents!"  So  runs  the  invitation  yelled 
from  half  a  dozen  lusty,  though  dusty 
throats.  For  this  occasion  every  livery 
stable  in  the  place  brings  out  all  the 
ramshackle  conveyances  it  has.  Every 
thing  on  wheels  is  pressed  into  service. 
Like  Christmas,  the  great  day  of  the 
County  Fair,  comes  but  once  a  year, 
and  must  be  made  the  most  of.  Few 
people  are  going  to  walk  on  so  dusty  a 
day  as  this,  so  the  'bus  drivers  ply  up 
and  down  from  seven  in  the  morning 
until  dusk  sets  in,  and  the  last  home- 
stragglers  have  left  the  grounds. 

At  noon,  the  highway  was  become  a 
very  sea  of  dust.  Dick  had  walked 
down  to  the  "square,"  and  was  looking 
about  for  a  conveyance  of  some  sort 
when  a  carriage  came  up  with  Mrs. 
Ware  and  her  daughter  inside.  Doro 
thy  spoke  to  the  coachman,  and  then 
waved  a  daintily  gloved  hand  at  Dick. 
"Delighted!"  said  that  young  man, 
getting  in  quickly,  and  adding,  in  Mrs. 
Ware's  direction,  "This  is  awfully  kind 
in  you!"  In  that  course  of  the  drive 
there  was  as  little  said  as  possible,  be 
cause  each  sentence  meant  a  mouthful 
of  dust. 

As  they  passed  through  the  gates  at 
last,  Dick  smiled  at  the  dear  familiar 
sight  that  yet  seemed  something  strange. 
There  was  the  half-mile  track  in  the 
open  meadow;  the  ridiculously  small 
grand-stand  perched  against  the  west 
ern  horizon,  the  acres  of  sloping  ground, 
shaded  by  lofty  oaks,  and  covered  by  a 
mass  of  picturesquely  rural  humanity. 
138 


Cape  of  Storms 

Against  the  inclosing  fence  the  count 
less  stalls,  filled  with  the  show  stock  of 
the  county.  The  crowd  was  surging 
around  the  track,  the  various  refresh 
ment  booths,  the  merry-go-rounds,  and 
the  spaces  where  the  "fakirs"  held 
forth.  The  grand-stand  was  filled  to 
running  over.  The  air  was  resonant 
with  laughter;  with  the  appeals  of 
the  "fakirs,"  with  the  neighing  of 
the  hundreds  of  horses  hitched  in  every 
part  of  the  field. 

The  driver  halted  his  horses  as  close 
as  possible  to  get  to  the  centre  of  attrac 
tion,  the  race-track.  Then,  the  horses 
turning  restive,  Mrs.  Ware  decided  to 
get  out  and  go  over  to  the  dairy-booth, 
and  see  some  of  her  friends  from  the 
farms.  Dorothy  and  Dick  accompanied 
her,  but  had  soon  exhausted  the  attrac 
tions  of  the  booth.  Mrs.  Ware  guessed 
she  wouldn't  go  with  them.  They 
started  out  into  the  motley  crew  of 
sightseers  together.  » 

As  they  approached  the  grand-stand 
again,  their  ears  were  assailed  with  by  a 
number  of  quaint  and  characteristic 
cries.  "  Right  down  this  way,  now,  and 
see  the  man  with  the  iron  jaw!  Free 
exhibition  inside  every  minute!  Walk 
up,  walk  up,  and  see  the  ring-tailed 
monkey  eat  his  own  tail  !  "  The  most 
laughable  part  of  this  exuberant  invita 
tion  was  that  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
a  circus  or  a  dime-museum,  it  was 
merely  the  vocal  hall-mark  of  an  ambi 
tious  seller  of  lemonade  and  candy.  It 
was  one  of  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 
139 


Cape  of  Storms 

It  caught  the  fancy  of  the  countryman.  It 
sounded  well. 

There  were  other  cries,  such  as: 
"  Here's  your  chance.  Ten  shots  for  a 
nickel,"  and  "the  stick  you  ring  is  the 
stick  you  gits!"  "This  way  for  the  great 
panoramy  of  Gettysburg,  just  from  Chi 
cago!"  "Pink  lemo.  here,  five  a  glass; 
peanuts,  popcorn!"  "The  only  Calif orny 
fruit  on  the  grounds  here!"  "Ten  cents 
admits  you  to  the  quarter-stretch — don't 
crowd  the  steps,  move  on,  keep  a-mov- 
ing!"  Babel  was  come  again. 

The  farm-people  themselves  were  a 
healthy,  cheering  sight.  They  were  all 
bent  on  as  much  wholesome  enjoyment 
as  was  possible.  It  looked  as  if  every 
man,  woman  and  child  in  the  county 
was  there.  They  had,  most  of  them, 
come  for  the  day,  eating  their  meals  in 
their  vehicles,  or  under  the  trees  on  the 
green  sward.  The  meadow  was  a  blaze 
of  color.  The  dresses  of  the  women, 
with  the  color-note  in  them  exaggerated 
in  rustic  love  of  brightness,  gave  the 
scene  a  touch  of  picturesqueness.  The 
white  tents  of  the  various  booths,  the 
greenleaf  trees,  the  glaring  yellow  sun 
over  head,  and  the  dust-white  track 
stretching  out  in  the  gray  mist  of  heat 
and  dust  made  a  picture  of  cheer  and 
warmth. 

A  cheering  from  the  grand-stand.  A 
trotting  heat  is  being  run,  and  the 
horses  have  been  around  for  the  first  time. 
It  is  not  like  the  big  circuit  meeting, 
this,  and  Dick  thought  with  something 
of  gladness  that  the  absence  of  a  bet- 
140 


Cape  of  Storms 

ting-shed   left   the   scene  an  unalloyed 
charm. 

Everybody  thinks  himself  competent 
to  speak  of  the  merits  of  the  horses. 
"He  ain't  got  that  sorrel  bitted  right," 
declares  one  authority.  "He'll  push 
the  bay  mare  so  she'll  break  on  the  turn; 
there — watch  her — what  'd  I  tell  you!" 
triumphs  another.  A  third  utters  the 
disgusted  sentiment  that  "Dandy  Dan 
'd  win  ef  he  wuz  driv  right."  And  so  on. 
Dick  and  Dorothy  smile  at  each  other  as 
they  listen.  There  is  nothing  pleasanter 
in  the  world  than  a  silent  jest  as  jointure. 

Then  there  comes  a  rush  of  dust  up 
the  track,  a  clatter  of  hoofs  over  the 
"stretch,"  a  whirl  of  wheels,  cheers  from 
the  crowd  and  the  heat  is  lost  and  won. 

And  so  the  day  wears  on,  and  the 
program  dwindles.  There  are  several 
trotting  races,  a  pacing  event,  a  running 
race,  and  some  bicycle  exhibitions. 
The  day  is  to  be  topped  off  with  a 
balloon  ascent,  the  balloonist,  a  woman, 
being  billed  to  descend,  afterward,  by 
way  of  a  parachute. 

But  to  neither  of  these  two  spectators 
did  the  events  of  the  program  seem  the 
most  interesting  of  the  displays.  It  was 
the  country  people  themselves  that  had 
the  most  of  quaint  charms.  Miss 
Dorothy  Ware  was  become  so  saturated 
with  the  polish  of  cosmopolitan  views, 
and  the  manners  caught  from  extensive 
travel,  that  these  scenes,  once  so  famil 
iar  and  natural,  now  struck  her  as  very 
strange  and  extraordinary.  In  Dick  the 
air  of  the  metropolis  had  so  keyed  him 
up  to  the  quick,  unwholesome  pleasures 
141 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  the  urban  mob  that  this  breath  of 
country  holiday  filled  him  with  a  pleas 
ant  sense  of  rest.  Never  again  could  he 
be  as  these  were,  but  he  could,  in  a  far- 
off,  dreamy  way,  still  appreciate  their 
primitive  emotions.  They  were  all  so 
ingenious,  so  openly  joyful,  so  gayly 
bent  on  having  a  good  time,  these  coun 
try  folk!  They  strolled  about  in  groups 
of  young  folk,  or  in  couples,  or  in  fami 
ly  parties.  She  casts  a  wistful  look 
toward  a  fruit-stand;  he  must  go  prompt 
ly  and  buy  her  something.  He  bargains 
closely;  he  is  mindful,  doubtless,  of  the 
fact  that  there  is  still  the  yearning  for 
the  merry-go-round,  the  phonograph, 
and  the  panorama,  to  be  appeased. 

In  the  West  the  sun  was  taking  on 
the  dull  red  tone  of  shining,  beaten 
bronze.  The  haze  of  dust  began  to  lift, 
mist-wise,  '  up  against  the  shadowgirt 
horizon.  From  thousands  of  lips  there 
presently  issues  a  long  drawn  "Ah-h!  " 
and  the  unwieldy  mass  of  a  balloon  is 
seen  to  rise  up  over  the  meadow.  A 
damsel  in  startling,  grass-green  tights 
floats  in  mid-air  upheld  by  the  resisting 
parachute,  and  drops  earthward  to  the 
safe  seclusion  of  a  neighboring  pasture. 
Vehicles  are  unhitched;  there  are  some 
moments  of  wild  shouting  and  maneuver 
ing,  and  then  the  stream  of  humanity 
and  horses  pours  out  into  the  dusty 
road,  and  in  a  little  while  the  fair 
grounds  are  merely  a  place  for  the  ghosts 
of  the  things  that  were. 

When  it  was   all  over,  when  he  had 
said    goodbye    to    Miss   Ware    and   her 
mother,  a  sense  of  loneliness  came  over 
142 


Cape  of  Storms  , 

Dick,  and  he  sank  into  one  of  those 
moody  states  that  nowadays  invariably 
meant  torment.  He  could  not  remem 
ber  to  have  talked  to  Dorothy  of  any 
thing  save  commonplace  and  obvious 
things,  and  yet  with  every  glance  of  her 
eye,  every  tone  of  her  voice,  the  old 
glamour  that  he  had  felt  aforetime  had 
come  upon  him  again.  She  was  no 
longer  the  same,  he  had  observed  so 
much;  the  girlish  exuberance  and  forth- 
rightness  had  given  way  to  a  more  sub 
dued  manner,  a  fine,  but  somewhat 
colorless  polish.  Something,  too,  of 
the  sparkle  seemed  tc  have  gone  from 
her;  her  smile  had  much  of  sadness. 
*  It  flashed  over  him  that  never  once 
had  either  of  them  referred  to  the  words 
with  which  they  once  had  parted.  Had 
it  been  his  fault,  or  hers?  Once,  she 
had  let  him  hope,  had  she  not?  He  re 
membered  the  dead  words,  but  he 
smiled  at  the  dim  tone  that  yon  whole 
picture  took  in  his  memory.  It  was  as 
if  it  had  all  happened  to  someone  else. 
Well, — perhaps  it  had;  certainly  he  was 
separated  by  leagues  of  too  well  re 
membered  things  from  that  other  self, 
the  self  that  had  said  to  a  girl,  once, 
"  Dorothy,  will  you  wish  me  luck?  " 

But  in  spite  of  the  changes  in  them 
both,  Dick  felt  that  her  charm  for  him 
was  potent  with  a  new  fervor.  He  could 
not  define  it;  it  seemed  a  halo  that  sur 
rounded  her,  in  his  eyes  at  least.  The 
sardonic  recesses  of  his  memory  flashed 
to  him  the  echo  of  his  foolish  words 
to  Mrs.  Stewart,  at  the  opera.  "  Oh, 
damn  the  past,"  he  muttered,  hotly.  He 

H3 


Cape  of  Storms 

would  begin  all  over  again,  he  would 
atone  for  those  pretty  steps  aside;  he 
would  pin  his  faith  to  the  banner  of  his 
love  for  Dorothy.  For  he  felt  that  he 
did  love  this  girl.  He  longed  for  her; 
she  seemed  to  personify  a  harbor  of  ref 
uge,  a  comfort;  he  felt  that  if  he  could 
go  to  her,  and  tell  her  everything,  and 
feel  her  hand  upon  his  forehead,  her 
smile,  and  the  touch  of  her  hand  would 
wipe  away  all  the  ghostly  cobwebs  of 
his  memory,  of  his  past,  and  leave  him 
looking  futureward  with  stern  resolves 
for  white,  and  happy,  wholesome  days. 

Surely  it  would  be  madly  foolish  to 
let  a  Past  spoil  a  Future! 

He  saw  the  grin  upon  the  face  of 
Sophistry,  and  set  his  lips.  No,  there 
were  no  excusing  circumstances;  he  had 
gone  the  way  of  the  world,  because  that 
way  was  easy  and  pleasant.  Only  his 
weakness  was  to  blame. 

''She  is  as  far  above  me,"  he  said, 
before  he  went  to  sleep  that  night,  "  as 
the  stars.  But — we  always  want  the 
stars!" 

As  for  Miss  Ware,  it  need  only  be 
chronicled  that  she  was  very  quiet  and 
abstracted  that  evening,  so  that  her 
mother  was  prompted  to  remark  that 
"  Lincolnville  don't  appear  to  suit  you 
powerful  well,  Dorothy."  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  girl  was  afar  off,  in  thought, 
and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  tears  be 
cause  of  the  things  she  was  remember 
ing. 

She  had  loved  Dick,  on  a  time.     And 
to  realize  that  never,  in  all  time,  would 
144 


Cape  of  Storms 

her  conscience  permit  her  to  satisfy  that 
love  —  that  was  bitter,  very  bitter. 


CHAPTER  XII 

INTER  was  coming  over  the 
town.  The  gripmen  of  the 
cable  cars  were  muffled  to 
their  noses  in  heavy  buffalo  coats,  and  the 
pedestrians  were  heralded  by  the  white 
steam  that  testified  to  the  frostiness  of 
the  air.  The  newspaper  boys  performed 
*  'break  downs'  '  on  the  corners  for  the  mere 
warmth  thereof,  and  the  beggars  and 
tramps  presented  a  more  blue-nosed, 
frost-bitten  appearance  than  usual. 

Everybody  was  in  town  once  more. 
The  hills,  the  seaside  and  the  watering 
places  had  all  given  up  their  summer 
captives,  and  the  metropolis  held  them 
all.  The  Tremonts  were  returned  from 
Europe.  The  opera  season,  promising 
better  entertainment  than  ever,  had 
lurred  many  of  the  wealthier  folk  from 
the  country,  for  the  winter  at  least. 
Among  these  were  the  Wares.  It  was  a 
fashion  steadily  increasing  in  iiavor,  this 
of  living  in  town  the  winter  over,  and 
retiring  to  rusticity  for  the  dog  days. 
With  the  Wares  it  was  not  yet  become 
a  fashion;  it  was  merely  in  accordance 
with  Dorothy's  wish  to  hear  the  opera 
and  the  concert  season  that  the  move 
townward  was  made. 

Mrs.  Annie  McCallum  Stewart's  little 
"  evenings"  were  more  popular  than 
ever.  There  seemed  a  positive  danger 


Cape  of  Storms 

that  she  would  become  known  as  the 
possessor  of  a  "  salon"  and  have  a 
society  reporter  describe  a  represent 
ative  gathering  of  her  satellites.  On 
this  particular  evening  the  carriages 
drove  up  to  the  house  and  drove  off 
again  without  intermission  all  the  eve 
ning.  People  had  a  habit  of  coming 
there  before  the  theatre,  or  after;  of 
staying  ten  minutes  or  two  hours,  just 
as  their  fancy,  or  Mrs.  Stewart  might 
dictate. 

One  of  the  latest  to  arrive  was  Dick 
Lancaster.  It  was  his  first  appearance 
there  that  season.  He  had  only  come 
because  he  had  heard  that  Dorothy  Ware 
was  to  be  there.  He  hardly  looked  as 
well  as  usual.  He  had  been  working 
very  hard,  making  up  for  the  time  lost 
in  the  country.  His  cheek-bones  stood 
out  a  trifle  prominently,  and  his  eyes 
were  tired. 

Mrs.  Stewart  proffered  him  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  shaking  her  head  at  him  with 
mockery  of  a  frown. 

"  You  ought  to  be  introduced  to  me 
again,"  she  said. 

"  I've  been  tremendously  busy.'1 

"Ah,  you  plagiarist!  The  sins  that 
the  word  'busy'  is  made  to  cover! 
People  escape  debts,  and  calls,  and  en 
gagements,  nowadays,  by  simply  flour 
ishing  the  magic  word  'busy.'"  She 
broke  off,  and  began  to  look  at  him 
steadily  over  the  top  of  her  fan.  Then 
she  went  on  in  a  very  low  voice,  "And 
have  you  found  out  how  one's  youth  is 
lost  in  town?" 

"You're  cruel,"  he  murmured. 
146 


Cape  of  Storms 

"  Not  I.  But  there,  go  in  and  talk 
to  the  others.  There  are  lots  of  people 
you  haven't  met  before,  and  there  are 
some  pretty  girls.  Go  in,  and  enjoy 
yourself  if  you  can.  And  perhaps,  if 
you  find  time,  and  I  think  of  it  again,  I 
shall  ask  you  to  introduce  me  to  your 
new  self. 

"  I've  never  been  introduced  to  that 
new  self  yet,  egomet  ipse" 

He  found  two  arch-enemies,  Mrs.  Tre- 
mont  and  Miss  Leigh,  conversing  with 
cheerless  enthusiasm.  "  I  heard  of  you 
a  good  deal  while  I  was  abroad,"  said 
Mrs.  Tremont,  after  greetings  had  been 
exchanged.  Dick  bowed,  and  looked  a 
question. 

"It  was  Mr.Wooton  mentioned  you," 
Mrs.  Tremont  went  on,  pompously. 
"  We  met  in  Germany.  A  charming 
man!  "  She  said  it  with  the  air  of  one 
conferring  a  knighthood. 

Dick  was  wondering  how  many  times  a 
day  a  woman  like  this  one  managed  to 
be  sincere.  Then  he  said,  "  Miss  Tre 
mont  is  well,  I  trust?" 

"Yes.  She's  here  somewhere."  She 
lifted  her  lorgnette  deliberately  and 
gazed  toward  the  piano,  "  Who  is  that 
playing?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Stewart  herself,"  said  Miss 
Leigh. 

"  Dear  me!  I  didn't  know  she  played. 
I  must  go  and  congratulate  her."  *  She 
moved  off  with  severe  dignity. 

Miss  Leigh  laughed  as  she  watched 
the  expression  on  Dick's  face. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  heridity? "  he 
asked. 

147 


Cape  of  Storms 

"Yes,  and  no.  Not  in  this  case,  if 
that's  what  you  mean.  Miss  Tremont  is 
far  too  clever.  Do  you  know,"  she  went 
on,  with  slow  distinctness,  "that  you 
are  changed." 

He  made  a  movement  of  impatience. 
"  I  have  heard  nothing  but  that  all  eve 
ning,"  he  declared.  "  Simply  because 
the  town  had  put  it's  brand  on  me, 
whether  I  wished  it  or  no,  am  I  to  be 
forever  upbraided?"  There  was  both 
petulence  and  pathos  in  his  voice. 

"  H'm,"  she  said,  "  you  still  have  all 
your  old  audacity.  But  I  don't  think  it 
is  anything  but  genuine  interest  in  you 
that  prompts  such  remarks." 

"You  once  said  something  about  be 
ing  genuine.  You  said  it  was  pathetic. 
Now  I  know  why  that  is  so  true.  The 
pathos  comes  after  one  has  lost  the 
genuineness. 

"Yes,  but  when  one  does  nothing  but 
think  and  think,  and  brood  and  brood, 
the  pathos  turns  bathos.  The  thing  to 
do  is  to  laugh!  " 

"Is  that  why  there  is  so  much  flip 
pancy?" 

"No  doubt.  Tragedy  evokes  flippancy 
and  comedy  starts  tears." 

"You  are  a  very  fountain  of  worldly 
paradoxes.  Where  do  you  get  them  all 
from?" 

"  From  my  enemies.  I  love  my 
enemies,  you  know,  for  what  I  can  de 
prive  them  of.  That's  right,  leave  me 
just  when  I'm  getting  brilliant!  Go  and 
talk  to  Miss  Ware  about  the  rich  red 
tints  of  the  Indian  summer  leaves  and 
the  poetry  in  the  gurgle  of  the  brook. 
148 


Cape  of  Storms 

Go  on,  it  will  be  like  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  after  the  dismal  gloom  of  my  con 
versation!"  She  got  up,  laughing,  and 
added,  in  a  voice  that  he  had  not  heard 
before,  "  Go  in  and  win!  Your  eyes 
have  told  your  secret." 

She  moved  off,  and  he  saw  Dorothy 
Ware  coming  toward  him.  He  noticed 
how  delightfully  she  seemed  to  fit  into 
this  scene;  how  charmingly  at  ease  and 
how  natural  she  looked.  Her  color  was 
not  as  fresh  as  it  once  had  been-  but  he 
remembered  how  popular  she  had  at  once 
become  in  town,  and  that  her  life  was 
now  a  very  whirl  of  dances  and  recep 
tions  and  festive  occasions  of  that  sort. 
He  had  hardly  shaken  hands  when  Mrs. 
Tremont  and  her  daughter  approached 
from  different  directions.  They  were 
both,  they  declared,  so  perfectly  de 
lighted  tc  see  Miss  Ware  again. 

Mrs.  Stewart  sailed  majestically  up  to 
them  at  this  juncture,  and  bore  Lan 
caster  away  in  triumph.  He  heard  Mrs. 
Tremont  asking  Dorothy,  as  he  moved 
away,  "  And  how's  your  poor,  dear 
mother?  "  Then  he  found  himself  be 
ing  introduced  to  a  personage  with  a 
Vandyke  beard. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  personage,  with  some 
show  of  interest,  "you're  an  artist? 
Now,  tell  me,  frankly,  why  do  you  West 
ern  artists  never  treat  Western  subjects?" 
And  then  Dick  found  himself  flounder 
ing  about  in  a  sea  of  argument  with  this 
personage.  Afterwards,  when  the  agony 
was  over,  he  discovered  that  it  was 
the  author,  Mr.  Wreath,  who  had  thus 
been  catechizing  him.  It  was  noised 
149 


Cape  of  Storms 

about  the  world  that  Mr.  Wreath  was  a 
monomaniac  on  the  subect  of  realism. 
Dick  remembered  wishing  he  had  caught 
the  man's  name  at  the  introduction. 

In  the  meanwhile  Miss  Tremont  stood 
talking  to  Dorothy  Ware  in  a  dim  corner 
of  the  room.  There  was  a  small  table 
near  them,  and  upon  it  were  scattered 
portfolios  of  photographs. 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  of  Mr.  Wooton?  " 
Miss  Tremont  asked,  smiling  sweetly. 

Dorothy  gave  a  little  start,  and  a  flush 
touched  her  cheek. 

"  No,"  she  said  tonelessly. 
"He's  a  very  clever  man,"   persisted 
Miss  Tremont.      "  I  congratulate  you." 
She  smiled  meaningly. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean?"  Dorothy's  eyes  flashed  and  her 
fingers  toyed  nervously  with  the  photo 
graphs. 

"  If  I  were  an  expert  photographer  I 
could  show  you  what  I  mean  instantly. 
Speech  is  so  clumsy!  " 

Dorothy  still  looked  at  her  blankly, 
though  she  felt  her  heart  beating  with 
accelerated  speed. 

"From  what  I  saw  at  Schandau,"  the 
other  went  on  coldly,  "I  should  say  it 
was  time  to  announce  the  engagement." 
Dorothy  gripped  the  little  table  with 
a  tight  clasp.  Bending  over,  as  if  to  ex 
amine  the  pictures,  she  felt  waves  of 
heat  and  cold  follow  each  other  over 
her  cheeks  and  forehead.  Her  breath 
seemed  to  choke.  How  warm  the  room 
was!  She  longed  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air.  She  would  go  and  tell  her  mother 
that  she  wanted  to  have  the  carriage 
150 


Cape  of  Storms 

called  at  once.  But  there  was  her 
mother  talking  busily  with  Mrs.  Tre- 
mont.  And  there,  beyond,  was  Dick. 

Something  very  like  tears  came  to  the 
borders  of  her  eyes,  as  Miss  Dorothy 
Ware  looked  at,  and  thought  of  Dick. 
He  had  loved  her,  and  she —  Ah,  well, 
that  was  all  over  now!  Even  had  she 
been  able  to  compound  with  her  own 
conscience,  Miss  Tremont  had  effectually 
barred  the  way  to — ah,  to  everything! 
There  was  Miss  Tremont  talking,  now, 
to  Mr.  Wreath  and  to  Dick.  Surely  the 
girl  would  not  dare — but  no,  that  was 
absurd! 

Fortunately,  Miss  Leigh,  noticing 
Dorothy's  solitude,  decided,  just  then, 
that  she  would  go  and  talk  to  the  girl, 
which  succeeded  in  diverting  Dorothy's 
mind  from  unpleasant  thoughts. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  the  vari 
ous  groups  were  constantly  changing. 
Above  the  chatter  one  could  hear  the 
strains  of  music  that  floated  in  from  the 
music-room.  Miss  Tremont  having 
finally  succeeded  in  luring  Mr.  Wreath 
on  to  a  discussion  of  his  own  peculiar 
theory  of  the  art  of  fiction,  Dick  left 
them  and  strolled  into  the  conservatory, 
He  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  had  been 
suffering  more  than  ever  before  from 
such  accute  pain  as  afflicts  each 
individual  soul  that  submits  to  drown 
ing  itself  in  the  meaningless  chatter  of 
society.  As  he  himself  put  it,  with 
something  like  an  oath  of  disgust,  "I've 
been  listening  to  people  I  don't  care  a 
pin  about;  hearing  rubbish  and  talking 
rubbish!"  The  real  key  to  his  feeling 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  disgust,  however,  was  in  the  fact  that 
his  opportunities  to  a  confidential  talk 
with  Miss  Ware  had  all  been  ruthlessly 
killed. 

"A  nice  way  to  contribute  to  the 
general  entertainment!"  It  was  Mrs. 
Stewart  herself.  She  was  shaking  her 
fan  at  him.  "Don't  get  up! "  she  went 
on,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you."  She 
scrutenized  him.  You  don't  look  cheer 
ful!" 

"  I'm  not,"  he  said  curtly. 
"'  Remorse?" 

"  No.  Remorse  is  the  divine  right  of 
cowards  and  gourmands.  Mine  is  mere 
ly  a  case  of  weariness. 

"With  your  own  sweet  self  to  blame. 
I  know  the  feeling.  You've  been  think 
ing,  or,  rather,  you  think  you  have  been 
thinking.  And  when  one  is  in  that  state, 
everything  goes  against  the  grain.  Even 
such  a  galaxy  as  that! "  She  waved  her 
fan  to  the  direction  of  the  inner  rooms, 
and  a  smile  of  mischief  curled  her  mouth. 
"What  do  you  think  of  this  year's  crop 
of  lions?" 

"  Bah!"  he  scorned  viciously,  with  all 
the  bitterness  of  the  man  knocking  at 
the  closed  portals.  "Who  was  it  that 
first  gave  your  friend  Clarence  Miller 
the  idea  that  he  was  a  novelist?  His 
wife,  I  suppose.  When  a  man's  single 
his  follies  are  suggested  by  the  devil; 
when  he's  married,  by  his  wife.  I  sup 
pose  she  wants  her  husband  to  equal  the 
notoriety  attained  by  her  brother-in-law, 
the  composer  of  '  Rip  Van  Winkle  '  and 
other  comic  operas  that  society  flocks  to 
listen  to.  It's  a  great  pity  that  art  and 
152 


Cape  of  Storms 

literature   happen  to  be  the  thing  this 
season." 

"You're  thinking  of  the  real  artists 
and  writers,  I  presume.  Well,  it  is  rather 
hard  on  them." 

< <  Hard?  Why,  its  death!  Think  of 
the  author  that  finds  the  market  glutted 
with  the  free-gratis  product  of  the  so 
ciety  butterfly's  pen.  Its  enough  to 
create  suicides." 

"  But  you  can't  very  well  include  Mr. 
Wreath  in  the  free-gratis  class?" 

"  No.  But  he  is  a  charlatan,  for 
revenue  only.  He  has  so  many  fads 
that  they  stud  his  conversation  as  barn 
acles  cover  a  rock.  He  is  a  trumpeter 
of  theories.  Oh,  I  don't  deny  that  he 
writes  well!  But  he  is  not  satisfied  with 
that,  unfortunately;  he  must  needs 
preach,  and  the  man  who  preaches  about 
his  art  is  a  dispiriting  spectacle." 

"Dear,  dear!  What  a  change!  It 
used  to  be  that  we  others  said  all  the 
cutting  things,  while  you  listened  in 
awe  and  trembling;  now  it  is  you  that 
uses  the  edge  tools  of  language.  You 
have  beaten  us  at  our  own  game."  Mrs. 
Stewart  dropped  her  voice  a  little,  and 
sighed.  "  But  you  have  lost  as  much  as 
you  have  gained,  have  you  not?" 

He  nodded  silently.  ««  The  world  is  a 
usurer  that  lends  us  wisdom  if  we  will 
but  pay  our  youth  as  interest.  And 
when  we  are  bankrupt  in  youth,  the 
wisdom  turns  to  ashes." 

"  Don't  be  morbid.     It's  too  fashion 
able.     Cynicism  is  so  cheap  nowadays 
that  the  poorest  Philistine  of  us  all  can 
afford  it.     The  only  virtue  in  optimism, 
153 


Cape  of  Storms 

it  seems  to  me,  is  that  it  is  suffering 
neglect  today;  for  that  reason  I  may 
espouse  it,  merely  to  avoid  the  charge 
of  being  commonplace.  Come,  be  gay! 
Laugh!  Forget!" 

"To  forget  is  to  forego  one  of  life's 
sweetest  pains."  He  laughed  mechanic 
ally,  and  got  up,  offering  Mrs.  Stewart 
his  arm.  "  I'm  a  stupid,  morbid  fool.  My 
only  saving  grace  is  that  I  know  just 
how  big  a  fool  I  am."  They  entered  the 
inner  rooms,  and  Mrs.  Stewart,  with  a 
smile  and  a  bow,  left  Dick  to  talk 
flatteringly  to  the  musical  lion  of  the 
town. 

Some  of  the  people  were  already  leav 
ing.  Dick  determined  to  slip  away  quiet 
ly.  But,  as  he  turned  to  the  vestibule, 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Dorothy  Ware. 

All  his  gloom  vanished.  "I've  been 
trying  to  talk  to  you  all  evening,"  he  de 
clared.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you 
something.  I  asked  you  once  before. 
But  that  seems  a  very  long  time  ago." 
He  found  himself  carried  away  in  a  whirl 
of  eager  enthusiasm  and  hope.  "  Dor 
othy,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her, 
"there  is  still  hope  for  me,  is  there 
not?" 

But  in  the  girl's  eyes  there  was  noth 
ing  save  pain,  and  shame.  She  looked 
away.  She  played  nervously  with  the 
lace  of  her  dress. 

Blind,  man-like,  he  took  it  all  for  shy 
ness.  "Only  a  little  hope,"  he  repeat 
ed,  tenderly.  He  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

She  shrank  away  from  him  in  a  sort  of 
horror.  "No,  no,"  she  murmured,  in  a 
154 


Cape  of  Storms 


voice  of  torture.  She  did  not  look  him 
in  the  face. 

Dick  stared  at  her  dumbly.  Now,  at 
last,  he  understod  her  silence,  her  avert 
ed  head.  He  saw  the  expression  that 
told  him  she  feared  to  wound  him,  even 
though  she  cared  for  him  not  at  all. 

"Forget  me!"  she  said,  and  moved 
away  quickly. 

He  stood,  for  an  instant,  looking  after 
her,  then  he  went,  moving  his  lips  in  a 
queer,  mumbling  way,  to  the  vestibule, 
and  asked  for  his  wraps. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  house  Dorothy 
was  sinking  into  a  chair  by  her  mother's 
side.  She  stared  straight  out  in  front 
of  her.  When  her  mother  spoke  to  her 
she  turned  slowly  around  and  said,  "  It's 
very  cold  in  here. "  She  shivered. 

And  her  mother,  knowing  that  it  was 
as  warm  as  an  oven  in  those  rooms,  and 
watching  the  queer  look  on  her  daugh 
ter's  face,  decided  the  latter  was  not 
very  well,  and  must  be  taken  home  at 
once. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

E  went  down  the  steps  with  his 
hand  clutching  the  rail  with  the 
fervor  of  a  tooth  biting  on  a  lip. 
If  it  had  been  daylight  the  twitching  of 
his  eyes  and  lip-corners  would  have  been 
peculiarly  noticeable. 

For  some  reason  or  no  reason  he 
scorned  the  sidewalk;  the  middle  of  the 
road  presently  felt  his  nervous  footfall. 


Cape  of  Storms 

Underneath  him  he  could  feel  and  hear 
the  droning  of  the  cable.  Some  hun 
dred  yards  before  him  he  saw  the  vivid 
glare  that  betokened  the  headlight  of  an 
approaching  cable-car.  For  an  instant 
or  two  he  asked  himself  why  he  should 
not  continue  walking  in  that  direction, 
in  the  path  of  the  Juggernaut,  and  allow 
himself  to  be  ground  into  fragments — 
into  the  everlasting  Forget.  Gravely  he 
pondered  it:  why  not?  Could  the  game 
be  worth  the  candle  that  was  snuffed? 
And  yet,  there  was  something  so  com 
monplace,  so  cheaply  melodramatic  in 
that  manner  of  going  out  that  he  drew 
back;  he  stepped  aside  and  let  the  dust 
of  the  passing  car  brush  him  spattering- 
ly.  To  commit  suicide,  to  choose  such 
a  moment  for  it — a  moment  that,  after 
all,  was  but  the  repetition  of  a  million 
similar  ones — had  something  so  ordi 
nary,  so  vulgar  in  it,  that  after  he  resisted 
the  thought  of  it,  he  shuddered.  His 
lips  took  on  a  semblance  of  smiling. 

"What  a  play  for  the  gallery  it  would 
have  been! "  he  thought  bitterly. 

Presently,  as  he  walked,  sobs  broke 
through  his  lips.  The  measure  of  what 
was  lost  to  him  seemed  terribly  great. 
All  the  light  of  the  world  was  but  dark 
ness  for  him  now.  What  did  it  all  mat 
ter  now,  this  world,  this  life,  this  aim 
less  race?  What  was  ambition  worth, 
when  ambition's  cause  was  gone? 
Could  he  take  up  the  dream  again,  now 
that  waking  had  brought  such  pain  ? 
Incoherently  his  mind  went  back  to  the 
moments  that  had  elapsed  just  before  he 
had  left  the  house,  moments  that  lasted 
156 


Cape  of  Storms 

longer  than  lifetimes.  He  saw  it  all 
again,  that  scene  so  indelibly  graven  on 
his  mental  film;  he  heard  those  fateful 
words  again  and  felt  their  blighting  im 
port.  His  arms  went  up  wildly,  with 
fists  clenched,  toward  the  stars,  and 
down  again  toward  the  earth  like  falling 
hammers,  driven  with  curses. 

If  anyone  had  met  him  at  that  mo 
ment,  Dick  Lancaster  would  have  been 
called  insane. 

Suddenly  he  stood  still,  and  began  to 
laugh.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  sound, 
and  he  himself  noticed  that  it  had  the 
discordance  of  the  laugh  bred  by  arti 
fice.  He  had  remembered  a  sentence 
that  someone  had  addressed  to  him, 
"  The  thing  to  do  is  to  laugh  !  " 

So  it  was.  Yes,  that  was  the  only 
armor,  the  armor  of  indifference.  He 
walked  on,  evolving  a  philosophy  of  flip 
pancy.  Wounded  sorely,  as  he  was,  he 
found  himself  sympathetically  wonder 
ing  whether  that  flippancy  that  he  once 
had  so  despised  in  his  fellow-men  and 
women  was  not  as  often  a  growth  of 
experience  as  a  mask  of  fashion. 

When  he  reached  his  room  he  flung 
himself  on  a  couch.  Outside  everything 
was  still.  He  sent  his  mind  back  to  the 
time  when  he  had  first  entered  this  town. 
How  void  of  all  suspicion,  all  cynicism, 
he  was  in  those  days!  Experience  after 
experience  had  left  its  impress  on  his 
wax-like  mind  and  now,  with  the  slip- 
ing  away  of  beliefs,  the  vanishment  of 
idols,  the  twinges  of  fate,  he  found  him 
self  at  the  other  extreme,  in  the  mood 
that  laughs  at  all  things,  and  believes 

157 


Cape  of  Storms 

that     there     is    nothing    potent    save 
chance. 

In  that  mood  he  resolved  to  remain. 
It  was  the  only  one  that  was  no  longer 
unbearable.  To  attempt  the  old  beliefs 
were  merely  to  give  hostages  to  disin- 
chantment.  He  was  done  now  with  dis- 
inchantment.  He  would  expect  nothing, 
care  for  nothing.  Except  to  laugh. 

But,  in  the  meanwhile,  he  could  no 
longer  bear  the  scenes  and  sounds  of 
the  town.  He  cast  about  for  plans. 
The  thought  that  in  one  mind  at  least 
his  flight  would  look  like  cowardice  did 
not  annoy  him;  that  also  was  merely  a 
thing  to  laugh  at.  The  country  was  not 
what  he  wanted.  It  was  not  quiet 
he  desired;  it  was  struggle  and  strife 
with  the  dragons  of  memory  and  bore 
dom;  he  wanted  new  battles  to  fight, 
new  experiences  to  harvest — not  sensi 
tively,  as  of  old,  but  coldly,  cruelly — in 
other  fields,  as  far  away  as  possible. 

He  unlocked  his  desk  and  searched 
for  his  bank-book.  The  figures  seemed 
to  satisfy  him. 

"Three  thousand,"  he  murmured, 
"  will  be  enough.  I  will  take  a  year.  I 
will  see  everything  that  my  fancy  asks 
for,  do  everything,  be  everything."  They 
call  it  the  Old  World.  Well,  it  must 
be  able  to  furnish  amusement  for  me,  be 
it  old  or  young." 

He  turned  to  the  unfinished  sketches, 
the  letters  and  the  other  impediments 
that  littered  the  room.  "These  shall 
not  hold  me  a  minute,"  he  said.  "I 
want  a  change  of  air.  I  am  going  to 
take  it.  Nor  friends,  nor  promises,  nor 
158 


Cape  of  Storms 

prospects  shall  stay  me.    It's  goodbye." 
He  laughed  again,  and  went  out  to 
buy  an  evening  paper,  to  scan  the  sail 
ing-lists  for  the  out-going  steamers. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

/^\  N  one  of  the  hottest  days  of  August, 
\\\y  a  month  by  no  means  the  most  de 
lightful  of  Berlin's  moods,  there  sat 
in  the  pleasant,  shady  garden  of  the  res 
taurant  "Zum  Kapuziner,"  facing  the 
Schlossplatz,  a  tall  young  man,  whose 
material  externals  proclaimed  him,  to 
the  trained  eye,  either  as  an  Englishman 
or  an  American.  It  is  a  safe  axiom  that 
all  the  well-dressed  people  in  the  Ger 
man  capital  are  either  English  or 
American. 

In  front  of  the  young  man,  on  the 
table,  were  a  glass,  a  bottle  of  Mai-trank 
and  an  illustrated  paper.  But  the  young 
man  was  not  regarding  any  of  these 
things,  but  kept  his  eyes  to  an  observ 
ance  of  the  passers-by.  This  seemed  to 
amuse  him,  for  from  time  to  time  he 
smiled  softly. 

It  was  certainly  a  pleasant  spot.  In 
front  there  stretched  the  broad,  paved 
square  that  gave  to  the  Old  Castle  of 
the  first  German  Emperors  on  the  left, 
to  the  royal  stables  on  the  right,  and 
beyond,  straight  ahead,  gave  a  glimpse 
of  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  architecture 
ofthe"^//*  Stadt?  For  the  Schloss 
platz  marks  the  limits  of  the  newer  por 
tion  of  Berlin;  beyond  the  bridge  every- 
159 


Cape  of  Storms 

thing  is  the  real  Berlin,  the  Berlin  un 
touched  by  the  triumphant  splendors 
that  came  after  '71,  the  Berlin  that 
knows  but  little  of  the  passing  stranger 
and  the  ways  to  despoil  him.  And  that 
was  why  Dick  Lancaster  had  chosen  the 
spot.  The  passers-by  were  not  at  all 
cosmopolitan;  there  was  little  of  that 
mixture  of  all  races,  all  garbs,  all 
voices,  that  was  to  be  seen  and  heard 
on  the  "Linden. "  These  were  the  real 
Berliners. 

In  the  months  that  lay  between  this 
day  and  the  day  on  which  Lascaster  had 
first  felt  the  soil  of  Europe  under  his 
foot,  there  had  come  to  him  many  exper 
iences,  many  amusements.  He  had  ac 
cepted  all  things.  Unfettered  by  any 
restraints  he  had  probed  all  the  novel 
ties  that  presented  themselves.  He  had 
lived  in  alternating  fevers  of  discrimina 
tions  and  hard  work.  For  all  these  new 
aspects  of  life  and  living  filled  him  with 
the  old,  dear  mania  to  create.  He  found 
himself  inspired  by  the  very  overflow  of 
his  sensations.  From  long  draughts  of 
enjoyment  hs  plunged  into  as  long  fits 
of  artistic  energy. 

He  found,  moreover,  that  the  in 
creased  tension  of  his  spiritual  being 
put  a  peculiar  force  into  his  pencil.  Be 
cause  it  was  merely  one  way  of  laugh 
ter,  because  he  began  in  a  spirit  of  flip 
pancy,  the  sketches  all  succeeded  im 
mensely.  Fortune  began  to  favor  him 
in  artistic  ways.  In  Paris  he  had  made 
a  portfolio  full  of  the  most  admirable 
sketches  of  types.  There  was  a  crafty 
cynicism  about  his  work  that  gave  a  fas- 
160 


Cape  of  Storms 

cination  to  them;  something  not  cari 
cature,  but  finer.  Now  he  chose  as  his 
subject  the  traveling  millionaire,  now 
the  splendid  queen  of  the  boulevard, 
now  the  phantom  of  the  "brasseie,"  and 
now  the  rag-picker.  One  day  he  had 
showed  some  sketches  to  a  man  that 
had  begged  permission  to  glance  through 
the  portfolio,  as  they  sat,  in  a  crowded 
cafe,  at  the  same  table.  The  man  was 
the  manager  of  a  famous  illustrated 
paper.  He  bought  some  of  the  sketches, 
and  presently  there  appeared  a  most  as 
tonishingly  eulogistic  article  about  this 
young  American. 

People  carefully  read  the  name.  They 
had  never  heard  of  him.  They  looked  at 
the  sketches.  That  was  certainly  tal 
ent  of  a  significant  sort.  The  other 
papers  followed  suit.  The  noise  of  this 
discovery  went  across  the  channel. 
There  came  to  this  young  man  orders 
from  London,  and  the  newspapers  of  that 
town  began  to  print  the  most  extraordi 
nary  inventions,  by  way  of  personalities, 
about  him.  The  world,  now  as  ever,  is 
always  glad  of  a  new  subject.  After 
that  Parisian  journal  had  sounded  the 
first  note,  the  volume  of  sound  that  had 
as  its  burden  Lancaster's  name,  grew 
and  grew.  Of  course,  there  were  those 
that  dissented,  that  took  occasion  to  flay 
this  young  man's  achievements  until 
there  seemed  left  only  a  skeleton  of 
faults.  But  even  that  only  swelled  the 
flood. 

All  the  while,  his  sketches   grew  in 
force  and  individuality.     For,  whatever 
else  his  detractors  denied  him,  they  ad- 
161 


Cape  of  Storms 

mitted  the  originality  of  his  style.  It 
had  never  been  done  before.  Some 
called  it  hideous,  some  grotesque;  but 
all  called  it  new.  That  was  the  great 
point. 

He  became  the  fad.  The  representa 
tives  of  American  newspapers,  who  had 
been  prompt  to  cable  home  reports  of 
the  successes  of  this  unheard-of  youth, 
began  to  attempt  to  interview  him. 
Whereupon,  having  by  that  time  ex 
hausted  the  immediate  enjoyments  of 
Paris,  he  fled  abruptly. 

His  success  had  at  first  surprised, 
then  amused  him.  When,  presently, 
he  found  that  his  bank  account  was 
swelling  most  astonishingly,  he  was  more 
entertained  than  ever.  He  laughed — 
that  unpleasant,  mirthless  laugh.  But 
he  felt  no  duties  toward  his  success. 
When  Paris  became  tiresome,  he  had  no 
hesitation  about  quitting  it  without" 
leaving  an  address.  For  that  matter, 
he  did  not,  himself,  know  just  whither 
he  would  go. 

His  ticket  had  been  taken  for  Monaco. 
The  life  of  that  place  fascinated  him  no 
less  than  that  of  Paris,  when  Paris  was 
fresh  to  him.  Day  after  day  he  watched 
the  procession  that  filed  to  and  from  the 
green  tables;  the  princes  of  the  blood, 
the  newest  nabobs,  the  touring  Ameri 
cans,  the  Russians,  the  worldlings  and 
half-worldlings  of  all  nations  and  de 
grees.  He  watched  the  blue  of  the  Med 
iterranean  as  a  contrast  to  the  black 
nesses  of  humanity  that  he  saw  daily. 

And  then  without  an  accompanying 
word,  he  sent  a  selection  of  sketches  to 
162 


Cape  of  Storms 

that  Parisian  paper  whose  discovery,  so 
to  say,  he  was.  There  came  another 
salvo  of  applause  from  the  world  of  art. 
It  seemed,  so  they  all  said,  as  if  this 
young  man  was  destined  to  show  such 
possibilities  in  black-and-white  as  had 
not  yet  been  dreampt  of. 

From  Monaco  the  wanderer  went  to 
Egypt.  A  white-sailed  fishing-smack, 
anchored  in  the  bay  below  him,  had 
started  the  thought  in  his  mind  one  sun 
ny  afternoon,  when  the  attractions  of 
Monte  Carlo  were  beginning  to  pall.  He 
could  afford  extravagances  now.  The 
fisherman,  when  he  was  accosted,  had 
smiled.  Yes,  he  might  charter  the  boat. 
But  where  would  the  gentleman  wish  to 
sail  to?  And  it  was  of  Egypt  that  Dick 
thought,  suddenly,  with  a  longing  for 
the  cold  silences  of  the  sands,  and  the 
pyramids,  and  the  quaking  waves  of 
heat.  And  so  the  bargain  was  arranged 
and  to  Egypt  went  the  artist. 

Thence  he  swung  back  to  Italy.  Then 
through  Switzerland.  Everywhere  he 
roved  through  the  corners  that  his  fancy 
led  him  to;  nowhere  did  he  merely  echo 
the  footsteps  of  the  millions  of  tourists. 
Sometimes  he  walked  for  whole  days  at 
a  time.  Sometimes  he  went  to  a  petty 
inn  and  astonished  the  host  by  staying 
all  day  in  his  room  and  working.  When 
ever  he  found  his  purse  suffering  unduly 
through  the  vagaries  of  his  nomadic  fan 
cies,  he  posted  some  sketches  to  such  of 
the  Paris  or  London  papers  as  had  been 
most  clamorous  for  them. 

It  was,  perhaps,  just  because  he  cared 
so  little  for  it  all,  that  this  luck  was 
163 


Cape  of  Storms 

come  to  him.  In  the  old  days  he  had 
chafed  against  misfortunes,  against 
limitations  of  all  sorts;  he  had  declared 
that  great  successes  were  no  longer  pos 
sible,  that  everything  worth  doing  had 
been  done  long  ago.  Now,  when  he 
cared  not  at  all,  fortune  kissed  him . 
Which  also  amused  him. 

Another  man  would  have  laid  plans 
for  the  furtherment  of  this  fame,  would 
have  counted  the  ways  and  means  of 
plucking  the  fruit  of  success  at  it's  ripest, 
would  have  plotted  against  the  erasure 
— by  caprice,  of  the  world,  or  loss 
of  his  own  skill,  of  his  own  name 
from  the  list  of  the  world's  favorites. 
Dick  Lancaster  did  none  of  these  things. 
He  merely  accepted  the  gifts  of  the  mo 
ment,  and  continued  recklessly  in  alter 
nate  disappearances  and  bursts  o  f 
splendid  achievement.  There  was  noth 
ing,  he  argued  bitterly,  for  which  he 
needed  all  the  fame;  so  why  should  he 
care  to  be  Fame's  courtier?  If  fame 
chose  to  pursue  him,  that  was  another 
matter,  and  beyond  his  heed. 

So,  carelessly,  recklessly  eager  for 
novelties  and  excitements,  this  young 
man  adventured  over  the  continent  of 
Europe,  gaining  everywhere  a  reputa 
tion  for  devil-may-care-dom  and  bitter 
ness. 

And  over  many  of  these  things  he  was 
thinking,  as  he  sat  in  the  garden  of  the 
"Kapuzimer."  He  thought,  too,  with 
something  of  amused  wistfulness  of  the 
Dick  Lancaster  that  had  once  been  him 
self, — the  boy  that  had  suffered  twinges 
of  conscience  at  the  thought  of  giving  up 
164 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  Sunday  to  enjoyment,  and  had  felt  for 
ever  stained  because  of  things  that  now 
caused  him  little  save  ennui.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  had  once  been  like  that? 
Oh,  yes,  all  things  were  possible;  he 
had  found  that  out  plainly  enough.  In 
deed,  he  reflected,  if  it  should  happen 
to  him  that  the  End  came  tomorrow,  he 
would  have  the  satisfaction  of  having 
lived  his  life,  completely,  fully,  even  to. 
satisfy,  in  half  the  time  that  most  men 
take  for  that  task.  Since  that  night, 
after  a  certain  girl  had  told  him  to  "for 
get,"  he  had  spared  himself  in  nothing 
that  promised  entertainment.  With  the 
old  restraints  completely  cast  t  o  the 
winds,  with  nothing  but  studied  reck 
lessness  as  his  Mentor,  he  had  followed 
all  the  promptings  of  that  epicureanism 
that  he  now  feigned  to  consider  the  only 
philosophy.  ^ 

In  all  things  he  was  fickle.  Just  as 
the  artistic  side  of  him  tired  quickly  of 
one  place,  one  set  of  types,  so  his  ani 
mal  nature  was  essentially  of  the  dilet 
tante  rather  than  the  enthusiast.  Wherev 
er  he  saw  a  will-o'-the-wisp  he  followed; 
but  it  was  no  sooner  caught  than  he  was 
repentant  of  his  success.  The  taste  of 
pleasure  was  of  the  briefest  to  him;  it 
turned  to  bitterness  in  a  moment. 

And  yet,  he  mused,  with  all  his  varied 
experiences,  with  the  feeling  of  satiety 
that  sometimes  overcame  him  from  sheer 
excess  of  sensations,  the  fascination  of 
the  town  was  still  upon  him.  It  was 
surely  in  his  blood,  he  speculated.  He 
remembered  with  what  passionate  eager 
ness,  after  the  final  shaking  off  of  all  the 
165 


Cape  of  Storms 

old  consciences — all  those  moral  skins 
that  he  had  shed,  and  left  to  rot,  over 
there,  in  America — he  had  come  to  the 
realization  of  the  varied  facets  of  that 
bewildering  jewel,  the  town. 

He  shut  his  eyes  to  escape  the  glare 
of  the  noon-day,  and  evolve,  behind  his 
closed  lids,  the  aspect  of  the  town  after 
lamps  are  lit.  The  constant  current 
of  humanity,  of  the  swishing  of  the 
women's  gowns  as  they  walked, 
the  rattle  of  the  cabs  over  the 
stones, — it  all  filled  him  with  a  pas 
sion  of  pleasure.  His  young  blood  went 
more  quickly  at  each  sight  of  that  surg 
ing  sea.  The  crowds  going  to  the  thea 
tres  and  music-halls;  the  shadows  that 
flitted  hawk-like  about  the  corners;  the 
colors  of  the  occasional  uniforms;  he 
drank  in  the  picture  thirstily.  Both  the 
artist  and  the  man  were  joined,  too,  in  a 
passionate  eagerness  for  beauty;  he  had 
been  known,  in  his  folly  as  men  may 
call  it,  to  walk  a  mile  so  that  he  might 
the  more  often  meet  an  attractive  face 
again.  The  vision  of  a  beautiful  female 
figure,  of  a  well-fitting  gown,  gave  him 
an  almost  painful  joy;  he  felt  that  charm 
of  mere  feminity  most  acutely  and  cov 
etously. 

And  yet,  with  all,  he  had  been  a  lonely 
creature.  His  pleasures  were  evanescent 
and  he  was  ever  constrained  to  browse 
upon  fresh  pastures.  From  this  novel 
experience,  that  colorful  scene,  and  that 
delightful  companion  he  extracted  the 
essence  all  too  soon;  and  the  dregs 
he  ever  avoided.  In  his  mind  there  was 
166 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  gallery  of  places,  faces  and  voices — 
all  loves' of  a  moment. 

It  was  a  cheerless  train  of  thought 
that  he  found  himself  in.  But,  as  he 
sipped  the  pale  Mai-trank,  the  glad  re 
flection  occurred  that  the  world  was 
very  large  and  that  he  had  seen  very  lit 
tle  of  it  so  far;  there  were  still  plenty  of 
things  left  that  were  new  to  him.  Sur 
prise  would  not  die  for  him  just  yet. 

He  was  watching  the  rainbows  that 
glimpsed  in  and  out  of  the  streams  of 
cool  water  that  the  fountain,  in  the 
square,  was  sending  up  into  the  sun 
light.  And  as  he  was  so  engaged,  there 
came  to  his  ear  the  sound  of  men's 
voices,  speaking  English  with  an  unmis 
takable  American  accent. 

He  turned  about. 

One  of  the  men  was  Wooton.  As  they 
.came  nearer,  he  recognized  the  other  as 
Laurence  Stanley.  They  were  coming 
directly  toward  the  garden,  and  in 
another  instant  they  had  seen  him. 
Stanley  put  on  his  prince-nez.  Then 
they  hurried  up  to  him  with  a  flourish  of 
hands. 

"  Why,  God  bless  our  home,"  laughed 
Wooton,  "if  here  isn't  our  famous  young 
friend,  Dick  Lancaster,  the  talk  of  two 
continents!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  mighty 
glad." 

"  Stanley,"  said  Dick,  after  they  had 
all  shaken  hands,  "what  are  you  doing 
here?  Where's  Mrs.  Stanley." 

"My  boy,  I'm  enjoying  myself.  I 
presume  Mrs.  Stanley  is  doing  the  same. 
For  reasons  not  necessary  of  explana 
tion  to  the  mind  capable  in  deduction 
167 


Cape  of  Storms 

we  are  not,  at  this  moment,  breathing 
the  air  of  the  same  hemisphere." 

"Will  you  fellows  take  a  bit  of  lunch? 
We  ought  to  celebrate  this  meeting  with 
the  famous,  etcetera,  etcetera,"  said 
Wooton. 

"Look  here,"  said  Lancaster,  a  trifle 
coldly,  "  I'd  just  as  soon  you'd  drop  that 
adjective  business.  Here's  the  bill  of 
the  play,  Stanley."  He  handed  the 
carte-du-jour  over. 

While  they  were  discussing  their 
luncheon,  chatting  of  the  various  causes 
that  had  brought  them  together,  and  re 
counting  stories,  and  adventures,  Woo 
ton  rose  solemnly,  after  a  few  moments 
of  reflection,  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
Lancaster.  "I  want  to  shake  hands 
with  you,"  he  declared,  "as  with  a  genu 
ine  thoroughbred.  I've  been  listening 
to  you,  watching  you,  and — but  that  was 
a  long  time  ago, — hearing  about  you. 
You're  not  the  Lancaster  I  knew." 

But,  for  some  strange  reason,  Lancas 
ter  did  not  hold  out  his  hand.  He  pre 
tended  to  be  engaged  in  lifting  his  glass 
to  his  lips.  Then  he  said,  "I  don't 
consider  that  a  compliment." 

Wooton  scowled  a  little  to  himself, 
but  passed  the  matter  off  lightly  enough. 
"Well,"  he  continued,  "at  any  rate 
it  does  me  good  to  see  you.  How  are 
they  all?  I've  not  been  back  in  years, 
you  know."  The  reason  for,  and  occa 
sion  of  his  exodus  did  not  seem  to 
touch  him  with  the  least  shade  of  annoy 
ance. 

Lancaster  looked  at  Stanley.  "I'm 
not  the  man  to  say.  I  left  there  almost 
168 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  year  ago.  Stanley  was  still  there 
then.  Stanley,  tell  us  the  news  from 
home." 

"Yes,  "was  Stanley's  reply,  "  and  a 
nice  lot  of  speculation  there  was  about 
your  sudden  disappearance,  Dick.  There 
were  all  sorts  of  rumors.  Some  of  them 
hinted  at  affairs  of  the  heart."  He 
caught  the  look  on  Dick's  face,  and 
stopped.  "However,  that's  not  to  the 
point,  I  suppose  you're  thinking?  Well, 
now  let  me  see:  they're  all  about  as 
usual,  I  think,  except,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Stewart." 

The  others  both  started  a  little. 

"Yes.  Her  husband  died  in  Janu 
ary.  She  gave  up  the  'salon'  of  course; 
in  fact,  I  think  she  went  abroad." 

Lancaster  wondered  what  she  would 
say  to  him,  were  they  ever  to  meet.  She 
must  have  heard  about  his  sudden  leap 
into  public  notice,  his  vagabondian 
ways,  his  reckless  career.  He  became 
moody,  abstracted.  The  others  were 
not  slow  to  observe  the  change  in  him. 

"Stanley,"  said  Wooton,  "its  time 
we  left  the  great  man  to  his  thoughts. 
He  is  evolving  a  new  and  fearful  sketch. 
Hope  we've  not  intruded."  They  got 
up  and  were  for  leaving  him,  but  he  pro 
tested,  and  they  all  strolled  away  to 
gether.  He  accompanied  them  to  their 
hotel,  and  then  sauntered  off  for  a  stroll 
in  the  Thiergarten.  He  found  a  bench 
that  gave  him  a  view  of  the  sandy  ditch 
wherein  the  children  played  all  daylong 
in  the  sun-light,  while  their  nurses  sat 
placidly  knitting  or  reading.  It  attracted 
him  immediately,  this  picture  of  the  lit- 
169 


Cape  of  Storms 

tie  bare-legged  youngsters  in  their  quaint 
German  attire,  digging  about  in  the 
sand,  shouting  and  laughing  and  fight 
ing,  and  all  living  in  the  evergreen 
country  of  make-believe. 

He  began  to  draw  some  rough 
sketches.  So  engrossed  was  he  that  the 
sun  had  sunk  behind  the  trees  before  he 
remembered  that  he  had  promised  his 
two  townsmen  to  go  to  the  "Linden" 
theatre  with  them,  He  got  up,  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  hailed  a  passing  Tax- 
omcter. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Cjl  N  the  days  that  immediately  fol- 
i\  lowed,  these  three  were  together  a 
C5  great  deal.  Presently  Stanley 
drawlingly,  announced  that  he  would 
have  to  be  packing  up;  his  bank  account 
was  getting  low,  he  declared,  and  he 
would  be  forced  once  more  to  bask  in 
the  sunshine  of  his  wife's  presence. 

The  other  two  still  stayed  on.  Berlin 
was  just  beginning  to  be  amusing.  Peo 
ple  were  beginning  to  return  from 
Marienbad,  from  Schwalbach,  from 
Heringsdorf.  All  the  theatres  were  once 
more  open.  Summer  was  saying  good 
bye. 

One  day  Wooton  asked:  "  Of  course 
you've  seen  Potsdam?  " 

Lancaster  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then  it's  high  time  you  did. 
Leaves  beginning  to  fall  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  The  last  chance.  It's 
170 


Cape  of  Storms 

really  very  worth  while.  Castles  till  you 
can't  rest.  Babelsberg,  Sans-souci,  and 
the  New  Palace.  To  say  nothing  of  a 
bit  of  Potsdam,  near  the  Barberini  Pal 
ace,  that's  almost  as  good  as  Venice. 

They  arranged  to  make  the  excursion 
the  first  sunny  day,  and  had  only  to 
wait  until  the  sun  rose  again.  They 
chose  to  travel  by  boat.  It  was  a  splen 
did  journey,  in  the  bright  sun-light,  past 
the  woods  and  rushes  and  villas  that 
skirt  the  little  series  of  inland  lakes  be 
tween  Spandau  and  Potsdam.  They 
left  the  steamer  at  the  landing-stage  for 
Babelsberg  and  went  leisurely  through 
the  grounds  and  the  simple,  comforta 
ble,  old  place.  By  the  time  a  boatman 
had  rowed  them  over  to  Potsdam,  it  was 
luncheon  time. 

They  left  the  boat  riding  in  the  Ven 
ice-like  waterway,  and  stepped  directly 
into  the  garden  of  the  vine-covered,  shady 
cafe  that  skirted  the  water  for  quite  a 
distance.  Waiters  were  moving  about 
and  at  tables  sat  family  parties,  eating 
and  drinking  cheerily  and  honestly. 
It  was  one  of  the  things  that  enchanted 
Lancaster,  this  part  of  continental  life, 
this  open-air  freedom  of  taking  one's 
glass  of  beer,  this  cheerful  way  of  sup 
ping  out-doors  en  familla,  of  devoting 
to  restaurant-garden  uses  the  most  ex 
pensive  corner-lots,  of  making  the  pass 
ing  show  of  strollers  one  of  the  sights 
that  you  paid  for  with  your  glass. 

They  chose  a  table  that  directly  over 
looked  the  water-front.  Behind  them 
lay  the  yellow  shabbiness  of  the  Bar 
berini  palace,  that  relic  of  a  king's  devo- 
171 


Cape  of  Storms 

tion  to  a  dancer.  Below  them  gleamed 
the  water.  It  was  by  no  means  an  un- 
picturesque  spot. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Wooton,  casu 
ally,  as  they  were  discussing  the  entree, 
"  I  met  a  friend  of  your's  last  summer,  a 
Miss  Ware." 

"  Oh."  There  was  not  much  interest 
in  Lancaster's  tone,  but  Wooton  helped 
himself  to  the  Rauenthaler  and  went 
on: 

"  Yes.  Rather  a  pleasant  girl.  Charm 
ingly  unsophisticated.  Known  her 
long?" 

"  We  were  children  together." 
"Ah,  then  she's  a  country  girl,  so  to 
say,  eh?     I  thought  so." 

Lancaster  was  deep  in  thought.  The 
other  continued  to  ply  himself  with 
wine. 

"We  had  some  charming  days  to 
gether,"  he  went  on,  reminiscently. 
"She  amused  me  immensely.  The  Tre- 
monts  were  staying  at  the  same  place 
then,  and  I  used  to  amuse  myself  con 
trasting  that  Tremont  girl  with  Miss 
Ware.  The  one  was  like  an  armor- 
plate,  the  other  impressionable  as  wax." 
He  began  to  smile  to  himself  mysteri 
ously.  "  Do  have  some  of  this  Rauen 
thaler  Berg,"  he  urged,  effusively.  "  It's 
really  capital!"  He  ordered  another 
bottle,  and  helped  himself  liberally. 
Lancaster  was  scarcely  heeding  his  com 
panion.  He  was  looking  out  over  the 
water.  For  once,  he  was  forgetting  to 
be  amused. 

"As  between  two  men  of  the  world, 
you  know,"  Wooton  was  saying,  lean- 
172 


Cape  of  Storms 

ing  impressively  on  his  elbow,  "it  may 
as  well  be  understood  that  that  Tremont 
girl  is  the  newest  kind  a  new  woman." 
"Know  what  she  said  to  me  one  day? 
*  The  only  thing  I  don't  like  about  love 
is  its  consequences!'  Nice  girls,  these 
new  women,  eh?"  He  laughed  softly 
and  drank  again.  Lancaster  turned  to 
watch  him.  The  man  was  showing  all 
the  cad  in  him;  the  wine  was  bringing 
it  out.  "Women,  nowadays,"  Wooton 
went  on,  "  make  a  fad  of  everything  ex 
cept  the  homely  virtues.  They  deliver 
lectures  on  art,  and  literature,  and  post 
ers,  and  music,  and  the  redemption  of 
the  fallen;  but  they  never  care  for  the 
staple  virtues  that  bring  happiness  to 
households.  I'm  not  saying  that  I'm  a 
model,  not  by  a  damned  sight,  but  I 
have  my  eyes  open,  and  I  think  the  wo 
man  of  today  is  trying  to  usurp,  chiefly, 
man's  prerogative  of  being  a  roue  if  he 
chooses.  What  she  needs  is  to  go  to  a 
medical  school.  Then  she  knows  the 
difference."  He  crumbled  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  flung  it  out  to  the  swans  that 
floated  down  before  them. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  he  con 
tinued,  confidentially.  "  that  they  were 
both  in  love  with  me,  Miss  Tremont  and 
Miss  Ware.  In  Miss  Tremont's  case,  I 
naturally,  had  no  scruples  at  all.  The 
fact  is,  I  think  she  took  the  initiative." 
He  stopped,  smiling  significantly,  and 
sipping  at  the  yellow  wine. 

Lancaster's  eyes  were  glowing  with 
anger.  The  man's  brutality  was  so  dis 
gusting!  Not  that  there  was  anything 
surprising  in  these  wine-woven  state- 

173 


Cape  of  Storms 

ments,  for  a  man  who  could  welch  his 
debts  in  the  way  Wooton  did,  two  years 
ago,  was  hardly  a  man  to  suffer  from 
scruples  of  any  sort;  but  the  very  fact 
of  having  the  names  of  people  well- 
known  to  him  brought  up  in  this  way  was 
nauseating  to  Lancaster. 

"Why  don't  you  drink  some  of  this 
wine?  "  Wooton  was  holding  the  bottle 
across  the  table.  "No?  You're  miss 
ing  something  good,  you  can  bet  on  that! 
Wine  is  the  way  to  forgetfulness,  and 
most  men  would  sell  their  souls  to  be 
able  to  forget.  Don't  you  agree  with 
me?  That's  right.  He  leered  fatuously 
at  his  companion.  "I've  always  liked 
you,  y'know,  Lancaster,  always  liked 
you.  Friend  of  mine,  yessir,  friend  of 
mine;  you  bet!  Great  artist,  too,  proud 
to  know  you.  But,  oh  Scott!  what  a 
simple  sort  of  idiot  you  were  when  you 
first  came  to  town!  You'll  excuse  my 
candor;  friend  of  your's,  I  am,  yessir, 
friend  of  yours. "  He  proceeded  to  watch 
the  swans  that  glided  past  them,  rip 
pling  the  smooth  water  gracefully. 
"Beautiful  creature,"  he  drawled  in 
drunken  sentimentality,  "beautiful  crea 
ture!  Reminds  me  of  that  girl's  neck, — 
that  girl  I  kissed  in  Schandau.  Beautiful 
neck,  Lancaster,  beautiful  neck!  White, 
and  smooth,  and  soft,  Moreover,  she 
had  the  most  adorable  lips;  extraordi 
narily  sweet,  I  assure  you.  Lancaster, 
I  understand  you've  been  rioting  all  over 
this  continent,  you  dog  you;  but  I  defy 
you  to  say  you  kissed  any  sweeter  lips 
than  those.  I  defy  you  to — !"  He 
sank  back  into  his  chair,  chuckling  to 
174 


Cape  of  Storms 

himself.  "  Excuse  me,  didn't  mean  to 
be  so  energetic.  Excuse  me." 

Lancaster  half  turned  his  head  away 
from  the  man  and  looked  out  over  the 
water.  Where  the  canal  widened  out 
into  the  lake  a  crowd  of  youths  were 
amusing  themselves  in  diving  from  a 
considerable  height;  the  sun  flashed  for 
one  instant  on  each  white  body  as  it 
gleamed  through  the  air  down  into  the 
cool  canal.  From  across  the  water  came 
the  voices  of  sightseers  and  pleasure- 
finders.  Closer  at  hand,  in  the  very 
garden  they  sat  in,  the  occasional  clir- 
ring  of  a  sword  over  the  gravel  denoted 
the  entrance  or  exit  of  an  officer;  in  the 
warm  sun-light  all  these  things  combined 
to  make  a  delightful  impressionistic 
scene.  Lancaster  turned  to  it  as  a  re 
lief  from  his  companion. 

But  Wooton,  with  the  growing  per 
sistence  of  intoxication,  was  heedless  of 
the  other's  indifference.  He  began  again, 
maunderingly: 

*'  1  don't  deny,  y'know,  that  there's 
an  attraction  about  the  woman  of  experi 
ence.  Not  for  a  minute!  extremely 
fascinating  person,  woman  of  experi 
ence.  As  good  as  a  comedy  to  make 
love  to  her.  But  the  women  of  experi 
ence  grow  old,  very  old;  while  the  fresh 
young  sprigs  of  girlhood  never  grow 
old."  He  chuckled  again.  "No;  they 
never  grow  old.  They  grow  into  expe 
rienced  women.  Axiom:  I  prefer  the 
fresh  flower  of  innocence  because  it 
never  grows  old.  Sometimes,  sometimes 
it  withers.  To  wither  innocence  is  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  games  in  the 

175 


Cape  of  Storms 

world.  I  wonder  how  often  the  aver 
age  man  of  the  world  has  played  that 
game  in  his  life?"  He  helped  himself 
to  the  wine  again,  and  looked  at  it  lov 
ingly  as  it  gleamed  yellow  between  him 
and  the  sun.  "You  really  should  let 
me  pour  you  out  some  of  this  excellent 
vintage,"  he  said,  oilily  smiling  upon 
Lancaster,  "you  really  should.  There 
is  a  deal  of  philosophy  in  it." 

Lancaster  was  now  watching  the  fel 
low  in  an  increase  of  amused  attention. 
With  the  inflow  of  the  wine  the  man's 
mood  changed,  from  a  species  of  maud 
lin  sentimentality  to  an  extravagantly 
ornate  loquacity. 

"  Philosophy  is  one  of  the  fairest  jew 
els  on  the  robe  of  fortune.  In  misfor 
tune  it  is  marked  'worthless  collateral. 
When  we  are  well  off,  we  philosophize; 
when  we  are  hard  up  we  curse  philosophy. 
Wine  is  the  only  real  philosopher.  Do 
you  know,  I  consider  your  abstinence, 
disgraceful,  positively  disgraceful.  It 
argues  an  unphilosophic  mind.  .  . 
There's  that  swan  again!  Beautiful 
neck.  Such  grace !  And  yet,  I  prefer 
the  other  one.  The  other  one  had  a 
beautiful  face,  as  well  as  a  glorious 
neck.  Moreover,  the  taste  of  those  lips 
was  positively  intoxicating."  He  looked 
solemnly  at  the  glass  of  wine  before 
him,  and  declared,  impressively:  "As 
between  the  two,  do  you  know,  I  actu 
ally  believe  I  prefer  the  lips?"  He 
gulped  at  the  liquor  again.  His  eyes 
strayed  dreamily  into  an  abstracted 
stare.  "  Dear  Dorothy  ! "  he  mur 
mured. 

176 


Cape  of  Storms 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  Lancaster 
started  savagely.  He  thought  he  might 
not  have  heard  aright. 

The  other  blandly  continued.  "  I  said 
'Dear  Dorothy! '  That  was  her  name, 
you  know.  Her  name  is  almost  as  sweet 
as  her  kisses.  Dorothy"  he  lingered 
over  the  syllables — "  Dorothy  Ware." 

"  What  !  "  Lancaster  half  sprung  up 
from  his  chair.  Then  he  curbed  him 
self,  with  intense  efforts,  to  calmness. 
"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  it 
was  Miss  Dorothy  Ware?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  boy.  Most  cor 
rect.  Oh,  yes;  remember  now:  friend  of 
your's.  Recommend  your  taste,  my  boy, 
I  really  do.  She—" 

"  Look  here  !  "  Lancaster's  voice  had 
grown  hard  and  chill.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say  that — all  that — is  true?  " 

Wooton  noticed  the  other's  repressed 
agitation,  and  it  quickened  this  mischief 
in  him.  "  Most  exactly  true.  Are  you 
— can  it  be? — are  you,  h'm,  jealous?  My 
dear  boy,  go  in  and  win;  I  clear  the 
field.  I — only  harvest  once."  He 
laughed  at  the  thought.  And  then,  in  a 
second,  his  laughter  choked  to  a  rattling 
gurgle  in  his  throat. 

Lancaster  had  sprung  up,  white  and 
trembling  with  rage,  and  stood  over  him, 
squeezing  the  breath  out  of  the  fellow's 
windpipe.  "You  drunken,  hideous 
hound  you,"  he  crunched  from  between 
his  teeth,  "you  rifler  of  reputations,  you 
damnable  dog  !  "  He  stopped.  H  i  s 
rage  scarcely  permitted  words.  "You're 
drunk,  damn  you,  and  you're  a  puny  lit 
tle  brute,  so  I  can't  whip  you  as  you 
177 


Cape  of  Storms 

should  be  whipped.  But  if  you  don't 
take  that  back,  if  you  don't  say  you  lied 
— I'll — give  your  burning  head  the  cool 
ing  it  deserves."  He  eased  his  hold  on 
the  other's  throat  for  a  time.  Wooton 
glared  at  him,  breathlessly,  with  a  fan 
tastically  ugly  sneer  attempting  lodg 
ment  on  the  lips  that  still  writhed  for 
air. 

"  Say  you  lied  !  "  Lancaster  loomed 
over  him  in  tremendous  wrath. 

Wooton  glared  doggedly.  "  I  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  managed  to 
whisper.  His  left  hand  was  sliding  along 
the  table  to  where  the  glass,  half  full  of 
wine,  stood.  Suddenly  he  gripped  it 
and  with  a  wrench,  splashed  up  the  con 
tents  and  the  glass,  full  into  Lancaster's 
face.  The  crystal  shattered  on  the 
artist's  chin,  fortunately,  and  so  did  but 
little  harm.  Before  the  crash  of  the 
breaking  glass  was  stilled,  and  the  wine 
spent,  Lancaster's  hands  were  about  the 
other's  throat  again;  he  gave  a  swing, 
viciously,  and  flung  the  body  completely 
over  the  low  railing. 

It  splashed  into  the  still  waters  noisily. 
The  swans  swam  away  for  a  moment, 
then  returned  in  curiosity.  As  Wooton 
came  to  the  surface,  he  screamed  out  an 
oath  and  a  cry  for  help.  There  was  a 
boatman  at  the  water-steps  of  the  ad 
joining  cafe,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
had  pulled  the  choking  man  out  of  the 
water. 

Wooton  glared  up  to  where  Lancaster 

stood,   still   hot   with  anger.       "Damn 

him,"  he  thought,   "if  he  were  not  so 

much    stronger    than    I — "       But  the 

178 


Cape  of  Storms 

thought  prevailed,  and  he  told  the  boat 
man  to  row  further  down  the  canal. 

To  the  waiters  who  had  rushed  up, 
Lancaster  had  been  very  cool.  "£s 
handelt  sick  um  eine  Wette"  he  assured 
them.  The  whole  thing  had  been  so 
swift,  so  silent,  that  up  to  the  moment 
of  the  splash  in  the  water,  there  had 
been  no  eye-witnesses.  He  smiled  at 
the  waiters,  paying  his  bill,  and  leaving 
a  liberal  trinkgeld.  '  'Mein  freund  hat  die 
wette  gewonnen. "  Then  he  sauntered  out 
with  a  final  fierce  glance  in  the  direction 
of  the  boat  that  was  turning  the  corner 
in  the  far  distance,  bearing  away  the 
scoundrelisms  that  lived  in  Wooton.  s 

When  he  reached  the  marble  circle  of 
the  fountain  in  the  gardens  of  Sans- 
souci,  Lancaster  stopped,  and  addressed 
the  spray,  bitterly:  "So  that  was  why 
I  was  refused?  Well,  well!  It  seems,  as 
I  said  a  little  while  ago,  that  there  are 
still  new  emotions  in  store  for  me."  He 
watched  the  spray  turn  to  mist  that  was 
almost  invisible.  "That  is  the  way 
with  ideals,"  he  mused.  Then  he  turned 
with  a  laugh  in  the  direction  of  the  ter 
races.  "How  absurd  he  looked,  in 
the  water!"  He  went  on,  laughing 
quietly. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

H  E    late  John  Stewart    had,    in 
his    lifetime,    achieved    the    dis 
tinction   of  being  a  model   hus 
band.     He  was  devoted  to  his  wife  in 
more  senses  of  the  word  than  one;  he 
179 


Cape  of  Storms 

was  content  to  appear  stupid  so  she 
might  shine  the  more;  content  to  slave 
at  Mammon's  shrine  for  his  wife's  sake. 
His  fund  of  patience,  of  tolerance,  of 
faith,  had  been  infinite.  It  was  in  return 
for  these  things  that  his  wife,  as  he  lay 
in  the  dying  moments  of  typhoid,  whis 
pered  to  him,  with  a  tremendous  suspi 
cion  that  she  had  seemed  blind  to  much 
of  her  fortune,  "John,  dear  John,  you 
musn't  go,  not  yet.  I — I — " 

And  though  John  assured  her  that  he 
was  going  to  get  well,  the  next  day 
found  the  promise  broken. 

'Mrs.  Stewart,  after  his  death,  rea 
lized  all  that  he  had  been  to  her,  all  that 
she,  except  in  his  loving  fancy,  had  not 
been  to  him.  And  brooding  over  such 
recollections  she  began  to  feel  the  ban  of 
morbidness,  the  old  rooms,  the  dear,  fa 
miliar  haunts  that  had  once  known  his 
voice,  were  peopled  now  with  sadness, 
and  she  resolved  to  seek  escape,  for  a 
time  at  least,  from  these  living  voices  of  a 
silenced  lip.  She  had  some  cousins  in 
London;  she  determined  to  travel,  to  visit 
them.  With  her  went  her  nearer  cousin, 
Miss  Leigh,  whose  whimsical,  cynical 
sincerities  she  loved  the  while  she  com 
bated  them. 

So,  in  the  spring,  they  found  them 
selves  in  London,  then  harboring  the 
whirl  of  society  at  its  swiftest.  But  that 
had  palled  on  Mrs.  Stewart,  and  she 
dragged  Miss  Leigh  off  for  an  appar 
ently  aimless  tour  through  Wales,  and 
the  Lake  district,  and  on  up  to  Scot 
land. 

180 


Cape  of  Storms 

September  found  them  in  St.  An 
drews. 

Although  it  was  one  of  the  months 
that  constitute  the  "short  season"  of  that 
dear  old  academic  village,  it  was  easily 
possible  to  escape  the  crowds  of  golf- 
enthusiasts  that  studded  the  links  with 
their  glaringly  colorful  costumes.  The 
old  castle,  the  ruins  of  the  cathe 
dral,  the  legends  of  the  historic,  bloody 
occurrences  that  had  taken  place  here 
for  religion's  sake, — all  these  were  full 
of  charms  to  these  two  American  women, 
saturated,  as  is  nearly  all  that  Nation, 
with  a  peculiar,  wistful  reverence  for 
things  antique. 

There  were  drives,  too,  that  gave  op 
portunities  for  enjoyment  of  the  Scotch 
autumn  scenery.  Along  the  banks  of 
the  Tay,  with  the  solemn  Grampians 
showing  dim  in  the  distance. 

Mrs.  Stewart  loved  to  sit  in  the  silent 
coolness  of  the  college  quadrangles  and 
dream.  It  seemed  to  her  that  only  for 
such  places  were  dreams  fit  compan 
ions. 

One  day,  they  were  sitting  together 
on  the  turf  that  once  had  marked  a  ca 
thedral  wall.  Miss  Leigh  was  reading; 
Mrs.  Stewart  idly  watching  the  breakers 
roll  up  to  the  cliffs. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon!  " 

The  two  ladies  looked  up,  and  turned 
to  find  Lancaster  standing  before  them, 
with  his  hat  off  and  a  look  of  amused 
surprise  on  his  face. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart,  shaking 
hands  heartily,   "  the  world  is  small  as 
181 


Cape  of  Storms 

ever,  is  it  not?     It's  like  home,  seeing 
you!" 

"  It  strikes  me  the  same  way."  He 
sat  down  beside  them.  They  noticed 
that  he  was  browned  and  furrowed;  the 
marks  of  travel,  the  brace  of  different 
climes,  the  scars  caught  in  the  thick  of 
life's  battle  were  all  sharply  dominant 
in  his  externals. 

"  We  ought  to  feel  honored,"  smiled 
Miss  Leigh.  "You  are  such  a  celebrity 
nowadays!  We  have  heard  the  most 
weird  anecdotes  about  you  of  late,  you 
know.  You  are  pictured  as  the  Sphinx 
and  the  Chimera  in  one." 

"You  are  still,"  he  answered,  "as 
cruel  as  ever." 

"  But  we  really  feel  very  proud  of 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart.  "We  know 
each  other  too  well,  I  hope,  to  veil  our 
honest  opinions.  I  admire  your  work 
immensely;  but  I  think  you're  terribly 
bitter  sometimes. 

"Ah,"  he  laughed  gently,  "I'm  glad 
it  strikes  you  that  way.  Bitterness  is 
the  only  taste  that  lives  after  a  com 
plete  course  of  life.  But  we  really  must 
talk  of  something  less  embarassing  than 
myself.  Do  tell  me  the  news!  How 
are  all  the  dear  familiars?"  He  paused, 
and  lowered  his  voice  a  little.  "If  it 
pains  you,"  he  said  gently,  "let  us  talk 
of  other  things.  I — have,  heard.  Be 
lieve  me,  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.  It  is 
a  poor  word,  but — "  he  stopped  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  gratefully  for  an  in 
stant,  and  then  said  with  an  effort  at 
cheerfulness: 

182 


Cape  of  Storms 

"  Oh,  they  were  all  well,  when  we 
left." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  Miss  Leigh,  "and  do 
ing  about  the  same  old  things.  Mr. 
Wreath  still  expounds,  in  and  out  of 
season,  the  doctrine  of  his  own  surpass 
ingly  correct  theories  on  veritism  in 
literature;  and  incidentally  takes  all 
occasions  to  assail  the  sincerity  of  every 
other  living  writer.  He's  an  amusing 
man,  and  if  he  had  only  been  given  a 
sense  of  honor  he  would  find  himself  an 
ever  re-direct  jest.  Clarence  Miller  has 
written  another  novel,  and  all  society  is 
wondering  whether  it  will  be  translated 
into  Magyar  or  Mongolian.  He  calls  it 
"  Five  Loaves  and  Two  Fishes."  His 
brother-in-law  has  composed  another 
comic  opera  that  some  people  have 
the  originality  to  declare  original. 
And — but  why  continue  the  catalogue? 
It's  just  the  same  ridiculous  circus  it 
ever  was." 

Lancaster  laughed.  "Thank  you. 
That's  really  a  volume  in  a  nutshell.  I 
wonder  if  the  performers  in  that  circus 
really  know  how  amusing  they  are?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart,  "but 
they  keep  it  up  nevertheless.  Of  course, 
it's  only  when  one  gets  away  from  it 
that  one  really  gets  the  most  entertain 
ing  focus  on  that  sort  of  a  thing.  I'm 
sure,"  she  sighed,  "I  don't  seem  to  be 
long  to  those  ranks  at  all,  now."  She 
shivered  a  little.  The  sun  was  setting, 
and  a  chill  breeze  blowing  off  the  sea. 
"I'm  a  fraid  we  must  go,"  she  said, 
rising,  "but  you  must  be  sure  and  come 
to  see  us."  She  gave  Lancaster  a  small 
183 


Cape  of  Storms 

card,  and*  then,  with  smiles  and  bows, 
and  rustling  of  skirts,  they  were  gone. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  Lancaster 
availed  himself  of  the  privilege  accorded 
in  Mrs.  Stewart's  invitation  as  often  as 
possible.  The  three  were  together  al 
most  daily,  if  only  for  a  few  moments. 
Lancaster  was  busily  employed,  the 
while,  in  fixing  in  black-and-white  some 
of  the  types  and  features  that  prevailed 
in  this  fashionable  corner  of  Fife.  The 
London  and  Paris  journals  soon  gave 
evidences  of  his  industry.  Fortunately, 
but  few  of  these  papers  found  their  way 
to  St.  Andrews,  and  Lancaster's  love 
of  incognito  was  not  disturbed.  Some 
times  the  artist  would  disappear  for 
days;  a  fishing-boat  would  be  his  hope 
for  the  time,  and  he  would  drink  in  the 
free  winds  of  the  sea,  and  the  passing 
joy  of  that  toilsome  life  of  the  fishermen. 
The  winds  and  the  freshness  of  the  life 
were  like  a  tonic  to  him,  but  he  knew 
that  it  would  presently  pall  and  he 
would  give  way  to  the  fever  for  the  met 
ropolitan  whirlpool. 

Occasionally  Miss  Leigh  preferred  to 
remain  in  her  apartments,  leaving  Mrs. 
Stewart  to  stroll  along  the  links  alone 
with  the  young  artist.  "Do  you  know," 
remarked  Mrs.  Stewart,  on  one  such 
occasion,  "that  my  cousin's  tremen 
dously  fond  of  you?" 

Lancaster  looked  up  in  surprise: 
Then  he  gave  a  short  laugh.  "She's 
tremendously  mistaken,"  he  said,  "I'm 
not  the  sort  that  anyone  should  be  fond 
of — now."  He  looked  out  over  the  sea. 
"  There  goes  a  steamer.  I  suppose  it's 
184 


Ca;:e  of  Storms 

the   Aberdeen   boat."     He  watched   it 
wistfully. 

< *  She  thinks,  "continued Mrs.  Stewart, 
heedless  of  his  abstraction,  "that  you 
are  a  young  man  much  to  be  envied. 
Already  you  have  a  name  that  is  known 
far  and  wide,  and  all  life  is  yet  before 
you.  She  —  " 

He  interrupted,  bitterly:  "Life  is 
all  behind  me,"  you  should  say.  All, 
all  !  I  have  tried  everything,  the  good 
and  the  evil.  The  one  broke  my  belief 
in  all  things  ;  the  other  gives  me  the 
belief  that  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
laugh.  Strange  !  I  heard  that  phrase 
first  in  your  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Stewart ! 
Suppose  we  sit  down.  These  rocks  are 
fashioned  delightfully  for  easy  chairs." 

The  sun  was  burnishing  the  water  with 
a  lustre  of  copper.  Thesea-gullsmoaned 
as  they  circled  about  hungrily.  The 
breakers  hissed  sullenly  below  them. 

"My  philosophy,"  he  went  on,  after 
he  had  seen  that  Mrs.  Stewart  was  com 
fortably  seated,  "is  very  simple,  now. 
Laugh  !  That  is  the  text  of  it." 

She  mused  in  silence.  "You  used  to 
be  so  different,"  she  murmured,  pres 
ently.  "  You  were,  not  so  long  ago, 
at  the  other  extreme.  You  thought 
everything  was  solemn,  awful,  impor 
tant  ;  that  there  were  majestic  duties  in 
life,  splendid  obligations,  and  splendid 
things  to  live  for.  Now,  —  you  say  it  is 
all  a  jest,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
laugh.  I  think  you  have  had  too  much 
curiosity. " 

"  Perhaps.     Curiosity  is  a  guide  that 
takes  us  into  a  labyrinth  and  leaves  us 
185 


Cape  of  Storms 

there.  But  why,"  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  impatiently,  "why  must  we 
be  forever  talking  of  this  hapless  per 
sonage,  me?  Suppose  we  talk,  instead, 
of  you?" 

"  Oh,  no.  You  are  the  interesting  one. 
You  are  a  study.  I  should  like  to  help 
you.  I  think  you  are  doing  yourself  an 
injustice  :  letting  yourself  drift  as  you 
are.  Your  fame,  alone,  won't  bring  you 
happiness." 

"  I'm  not  expecting  happiness." 

Mrs.  Stewart  watched  his  face,  hard 
set,  with  it's  bitter  drop  to  the  right 
corner  of  the  mouth,  and  something  of 
pity  came  to  her.  "Once,"  she  went 
on,  "it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a 
woman  who  meant  for  you  the  same 
thing  as  happiness." 

"Perhaps."  His  voice  was  as  hard 
as  before.  "  That  was  a  very  long  time 
ago, — counting  by  experiences.  Why 
talk  of  marriage?  I  don't  think  I  could 
stand  it  for  an  instant;  I  don't  think 
any  woman  could  stand  me.  As  I  once 
was  —  that  was  different." 

"  Some  women  are  very  patient." 

"Yes.  And  then  I  should  go  mad 
until  they  came  out  of  their  deadly 
patience  into  something  more  exciting. 
A  woman's  fury  would  amuse  me  vastly, 
I  think."  He  twisted  his  stick  into  the 
rocks,  and  outlined  vague  designs  in  the 
sandstone.  "Why,  supposing,  for  the 
sake  of  the  argument,  that  I  asked  you 
to  marry  me,  you  would,  I  am  sure,  con 
sider  me  a  madman  to  expect  you  to 
make  such  a  fool  of  yourself?  " 

She  flushed  slightly.  "Merely  for 
186 


Cape  of  Storms 

the  sake  of  the  argument,  I  don't  say 
that  I  would  do  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  might  consider  it  ill-timed,  incon 
siderate." 

"Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon,  humbly.  I 
realize  that  deeply.  Merely,  I  said,  for 
the  sake  of  the  argument.  I  want  to 
show  you  the  utter  hopelessness  of  my 
position.  Suppose  then,  that  I  asked 
you  that  question,  what  would  you  tell 
yourself?  That  I  was  a  man,  young  in 
years,  old  in  experiences,  soured  in 
thought  and  taste,  bitter  in  mind,  self 
ish,  a  slave  to  the  most  egoistic  of 
epicureanisms.  A  man  who  considers 
nothing  too  sacred  for  laughter,  or  too 
ridiculous  for  tears.  A  man  who  is  a 
perpetual  evidence  of  the  corroding  in 
fluences  of  flippancy ;  whose  very  art, 
even,  is  merely  a  means  for  amusement. 
No, — you,  clever,  shrewd,  adaptable 
woman  of  the  world  though  you  are, 
would  realize  at  once  that  to  enter  into 
a  life-partnership  with  a  man  of  that  sort 
were  to  invite  immediate  misery.  Think  : 
the  man  would  be  ungovernable,  save  by 
his  moods  ;  when  he  should  be  at  home 
acting  as  host  to  a  dinner-party  he  would 
be  tramping  the  moors  in  a  wild  passion 
for  solitude?  A  man  who  would  per 
petually  fling  at  his  wife  the  most  mor 
dant  of  sarcasms,  merelyfor  thepleasure 
they  caused  his  powers  of  creation.  If 
a  biting  jest  came  to  him,  he  would  hurl 
it  at  his  wife,  without  malice,  but  because 
she  happened  to  be  present.  Not  even 
the  cleverest  woman  in  the  world  can 
decide  between  the  words  and  the  motive 
in  a  case  like  that.  No  ;  this  man  has 
187 


Cape  of  Storms 

fed  too  much  on  the  lees  of  disenchant 
ment  to  be  himself  aught  but  a  sorry 
devil  of  a  jester." 

She  signed.  "You  have  the  modern 
disease  in  terrible  development — self- 
analysis.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  quite  as 
cruel  as  vivisection.  And  I  think  you 
exaggerate  your  vices.  After  all — I  may 
speak  frankly,  may  I  not?  I  am  a  wo 
man  that  has  ever  kept  her  eyes  open — 
you  represent  nothing  so  very  dreadful. 
You  are  young,  impetuous;  you  have  had 
the  bandages  of  stern  puritanism  rough 
ly  torn  from  you,  and  you  have  had  a 
little  of  what  the  world  calls  'your  fling!' 
You  realize  yourself  far  too  much.  You 
are  not  one  whit  worse  than  others.  All 
men  worship,  for  a  time,  at  the  shrine  of 
their  animal  natures,  I  suppose.  But  in 
stead  of  letting  the  thought  of  it  all 
drive  you  further  and  further  into  bitter 
ness,  why  not  resolve  to  shake  off  the 
whole  cloak,  and  put  it  back  into  the 
limbo  of  thinks  henceforth  to  be  avoid 
ed?"  She  paused,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  smile.  "Get  married.  I  be 
lieve,  in  spite  of  your  fears,  that  you 
will  make  a  good  husband.  Believe  me, 
you  will  be  a  much  better  one  than  if 
you  had  never  taught  yourself  the  re 
volting  nausea  that  the  other  side  of 
life  brings." 

"  Marry?"  he  repeated,  why  do  you 
harp  on  that?  I  tell  you,  there  is  no 
one,  no  one  at  all!  Unless — "  he  looked 
over  the  breakers  to  the  setting  sun, 
"  unless  there  were  a  woman  some 
where  that  could  understand  and  for 
give.  A  woman  that  knew  something 
188 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  the  world,  of  the  stings  of  experience 
and  the  hollowness  of  hope.  With  a 
woman  like  that  I  might  become  the 
owner  of  the  new  youth,  might  sink  all 
these  bitternesses,  live  earnest  in  am 
bition  and  ,  .  ."  But  there  is  no  such 

woman,  none A  sudden  light 

flashed  into  his  eyes,  and  with  passion 
he  continued,  "Except-yourself.  Yes~ 
you  are  the  only  one.  You  know;  you 
understand.  Oh,  listen  to  me,  listen! 
Why  tell  me  that  this  is  a  sacrilege,  an 
insult  to  a  memory.  Do  you  suppose 
I  don't  know  that?  I  do;  I  feel  it  deep 
ly;  but  I  also  feel  that  I  am  pleading 
for  a  helping  hand,  that  I  see  in  you  the 
only  chance  of  safety,  that  you  mean  for 
me  a  new  life,  and  that  I  must  tell  you 
so  now,  before  the  opportunity  is  gone. 
Oh,  don't  tell  me  I'm  a  coward — I  know 
that,  too,  well  enough.  I  confess  it;  I 
am  a  coward,  a  broken-hearted  cur." 
He  groaned,  and  getting  up,  began  to 
walk  slowly  up  and  down  before  her. 
"Is  it  so  impossible?  I  would — you 
yourself  admitted  that  hope! — improve. 
Is  there  no  hope?" 

11  What  a  boy  you  are,  what  a  boy! 
You  have  all  the  headstrong,  passionate 
eagerness  of  youth,  and  yet  you  pretend 
to  play  the  wearied  liver  of  many  lives! 
No,  Dick,"  her  voice  grew  gentler,  and 
it  came  to  him  like  a  pleasant  harmony, 
"we  will  do  nothing  so  foolish.  You 
and  I  are  always  to  be  very  good  friends, 
and  we  will  help  each  other  always,  but 
not  that,  not  that!  You  are  too  young; 
regret  would  come  to  you  all  too  soon. 
No  matter  how  nicely  each  of  us  were 
189 


Cape  of  Storms 

to  fashion  his  or  her  temper  to  the 
other's,  there  would  come  that  thought: 
for  the  hope  of  mere  comfort  I  have 
sacrificed  an  idol.  For,  Dick,  think, 
think!  Dorothy  Ware!  Do  you  think 
1  have  not  watched  you,  found  you  out 
long  ago?  What  was  it,  Dick,  a  tiff? 
A  refusal?" 

He  stopped  in  his  sentry-go,  and  be 
gan  to  whistle,  softly,  'La  donna  e  Mobile. ' 
"  I— I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added,  has 
tily,  "I  fear  I  forget  my  manners." 
Was  it  a  refusal?  you  ask.  Well, — per 
haps,  perhaps  not.  At  the  time,  I 
thought  it  was.  Since  then  I  have  found 
out  things — things — Bah,  what  does  it 
matter!" 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  "  tell  me!  " 

"  In  Germany,  I  met  Wooton — " 

She  interrupted.  "Ah,  yes;  I  remem 
ber  a  terrible  cruel  picture  you  drew  of 
a  man  at  a  cafe  table,  drinking.  It  was 
his  face,  unmistakably.  Why  did  you 
do  that?" 

"That  was — only  an  afterthought. 
Well,  he  had  been — drinking,  and  he 
talked  a  good  deal.  Some  of  it  was  about 
—Miss  Ware." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

Then  "And  you  believed  it?"  she 
asked. 

"At  the  time,  no.  Lord  knows  I  did 
not  want  to.  But,  afterward,  I  remem 
bered  the  look  on  her  face  when  she 
gave  me  that  last  refusal.  It  was  a 
strange  look;  it  meant  more  than  I  could 
account  for,  at  that  time.  Yes,"  he 
sighed,  "I  believe  it.  Why  shouldn't 
I?  I  know  how  vile  a  man  may  be;  be 
IQO 


Cape  of  Storms 

a  woman  only  half  as  weak,  or  half  as 
'new,'  and  she  is  a  thing  for  loathing." 

"  Hush!  What  a  conventional  man  it 
is,  after  all.  Always  the  same  old  tune, 
one  thing  for  the  man,  another  for  the 
woman!  Listen:  I  know  Dorothy  Ware, 
better,  perhaps,  than  you  do;  I  know 
her  later  self,  you  only  know  her  as  a 
child.  There  are  great  points  of  simi 
larity  between  you  two.  She  has  much 
of  your  absurd  sensitiveness;  self-tor 
ment  is  one  of  her  vices.  She  is  very 
much  given  to  making  mountains  out  of 
molehills.  She—" 

"No,  no,"  he  interrupted,  wearily, 
"I  tell  you  I  believe  it.  All,  all  of 
it!" 

"Well,"  she  said,  somewhat  angrily, 
"and  suppose  you  do!  What  then!  Who 
are  you,  that  you  should  judge  ?  " 

He  winced  slightly,  but  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "Oh,  of  course,  of 
course;  I've  heard  all  about  that.  But 
it  won't  do,  in  practice." 

"Won't  it?  Let  us  put  the  cases 
plainly,  for  comparison's  sake:  You  are 
a  young  man  that  has  had  more  than  his 
share  of  selfish  indulgence;  you  have 
thrown  aside  all  scruples  and  done  ev 
erything  and  anything  you  pleased. 
Your  actual  transgressions  of  the  com 
mandments  we  will  waive;  there  is  a 
greater  crime:  you  have  allowed  your 
self  to  become  a  soured,  bitter,  heart 
less  creature,  fit  only  to  disseminate 
scorn  and  distaste.  She,  the  woman  in 
the  case,  once,  we  will  say,  allowed  her 
senses  to  oust  her  sense.  Ever  since, 
she  has  suffered  agonies  of  regret.  Un- 
191 


Cape  of  Storms 

like  the  man  she  has  not  told  herself 
that  she  might  as  well  let  fate  have  it's 
play  out.  She  is  as  sweet  as  the  dew  of 
Maytime,  and  the  slight  trace  of  sad 
ness  only  needs  the  touch  of  love  to  fall 
and  almost  fade.  I  think  she  loves  you; 
I  am  not  sure — she  is  a  woman,  and  it 
is  hard  to  say.  As  for  you,  in  spite  of 
everything,  you  love  her.  You  coward! 
Why  don't  you  ask  her  again?  She  will 
tell  you  that  it  is  impossible,  of  course. 
She  will  say  there  was  once  another. 
Then,  unless  you  are  a  greater  coward 
than  I  think  you,  you  will  tell  her 
that  compared  to  yourself  she  is  as  pure 
as  the  driven  snow,  and  you  want  noth 
ing,  only  her  forgiveness  for  yourself." 

He  was  still  stubborn.  "It  is  the  old 
story,"  he  said,  "one  has  heard  it  all 
before.  The  woman  is  to  be  put  on  a 
par  with  the  man;  there  is  no  actual  dif 
ference  in  ethics.  But  I  once  saw  it 
tried;  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  it.  To 
be  sure — the  woman  was  notorious." 

"Ah!  How  can  you  compare  the 
cases?  And  yet — "  she  laughed  a  trifle 
bitterly,— "in  this  case  the  man  is  notor 
ious."  She  watched  him  wince  under 
the  callousness  of  triumph. 

"Think, "she  continued,  "what  she 
could  be  to  you,  how  she  could  help 
you;  how  you  could  help  each  other! 
The  happy  days  and  dreams  together, 
the  planning  for  new  artistic  achieve 
ments,  the  sweet  companionship  of  a 
soul  capable  of  understanding!  Instead 
of — what?  Fierce  flights  into  forgetful- 
ness;  pursuits  of  vanishing  pleasures, 
palling  desires;  short  triumphs  in  art 
192 


Cape  of  Storms 

merged  into  long  revulsions  from  life! 
It  seems,  to  me,  a  fair  exchange  !  "  She 
rose,  as  if  to  end  the  subject.  He  put 
her  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  they 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  village,  talk 
ing  of  other  things,  gaily,  lightly,  insin 
cerely. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ANCASTER  said  goodbye  on  the 
following  morning,  and  by  noon 
he  was  in  Edinboro'.  At  the 
Travelers'  club  he  found  a  letter  from 
the  firm  of  publishers,  at  home,  that  had 
lately  been  using  a  great  many  of  his 
sketches.  They  took  the  liberty  of  in 
forming  him  that  owing  to  the  pop 
ularity  of  his  work  they  had  thought 
proper  to  open  an  exhibition  of  his 
original  sketches  in  the  Museum  Art 
Gallerie?.  While  they  were  aware  that 
possession  of  these  originals  was  entire 
ly  vested  in  themselves,  they  had  decided 
to  lay  aside  a  share  of  the  receipts  from 
the  exhibition  and  sale  for  him,  as  a 
courtesy  royalty.  Lancaster  folded  the 
letter  up,  drummed  on  the  table  for  a 
second  or  two,  and  then  went  out  to  get 
a  paper.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that, 
if  he  sailed  for  home  at  once,  he  could 
reach  there  before  the  exhibition  closed. 
It  would  be  a  grim  bit  of  humor  to  ap 
pear  there  in  person,  and  listen  to  the 
comments  of  the  very  people  who,  a 
year  ago,  would  have  considered  him 
and  his  work  beneath  their  notice.  Now, 
with  a  European  reputation,  his  stock, 


Cape  of  Storms 

so  to  put  it,  had  gone  far  beyond  par  in 
his  native  country.  Besides, — the  mem 
ory  of  the  things  that  Mrs.  Stewart  had 
said  to  him  refused  to  pass  from  him — 
there  was  Dorothy!  He  would  see  her 
again;  he  would  put  his  fate  to  the 
touch  once  more. 

It  had  been  a  white  night  that  had 
passed  between  his  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Stewart  and  his  departure  from  St. 
Andrews.  He  had  lain  awake  listening 
to  the  hissing  of  the  sea  over  the  rocks, 
and  recounting  the  arguments  that  af 
fected  his  feelings  toward  Miss  Ware. 
Now,  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  she  rep 
resented  for  him  the  one  chance  of  hap 
piness;  that  the  touch  of  sadness  that 
had  come  to  her  would  make  her  but  the 
more  merciful  to  his  own  past.  Then, 
again,  the  old  bitterness,  the  old  distaste 
came;  he  could  not  escape  the  thought 
that  the  old  conventions  teach,  that  one 
step  aside  means,  for  the  woman,  eter 
nal  disgrace.  Well,  and  even  if  the  old 
conventions  said  so  a  thousand  times, 
were  they  to  bind  him  now,  when  they 
had  so  long  been  thrust  away  by  him  in 
scorn?  At  any  rate,  the  torment  of 
these  conflicting  thoughts  was  to  be 
avoided.  He  must  decide  upon  one  at 
tempt  or  another — the  return  home  and 
the  repetition  of  a  certain  question,  or 
the  effort  to  continue  more  steadfast 
than  ever  in  the  philosophy  of  laughter. 

He  decided  for  the  return  to  America. 

No  boat  left  Liverpool  for  two  days. 

In  the   interval    he    roamed  about  the 

most  beautiful  city  in  Scotland,  enjoying 

the  memories  and  pictures  of  the  past 

194 


Cape  of  Storms 

•^ 

that  Holyrood,  the  old  Castle,  and  John 
Knox's  house  brought  up.  The  autumn 
sun  turned  Prince's  Street  Gardens,  and 
the  Scott  Monument  into  a  green  and 
gold  and  flowered  picture  that  he  re 
membered  no  equal  to,  in  his  wander 
ings  through  the  capitals  of  Europe, 
Prince's  Street,  he  maintained,  was  the 
prettiest  thoroughfare  in  the  world.  He 
left  it  with  regret. 

His  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  mere 
ly  gave  him  material  for  a  study  of  the 
gowns  adopted  by  the  fair  ocean  travel- 
ers,and  several  chances  for  cynical  repre 
sentations  of  the  humors  of  upper-deck 
flirtations.  Otherwise  his  journey  was 
as  monotonous  as  the  luxuriance  of 
the  modern  travel  could  make  it. 

It  was  morning,  when  after  another 
fatiguing  journey  by  rail,  he  reached  the 
metropolis  that  held  so  many  mixed 
memories  for  him.  He  went  straight  to 
the  Philistine  club,  and  took  some 
rooms  there.  The  servants  hardly  knew 
him.  He  had,  it  was  true,  changed  a 
great  deal.  He  was  browner,  thinner; 
there  were  deep  lines  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth. 

The  first  man  he  met  in  the  smoking- 
room,  after  he  had  refreshed  himself 
with  a  bath  and  a  lunch,  was  Van- 
struther. 

"Why/' said  that  gentleman,  after  a 
long,  puzzled  look,  "dashed  if  it  isn't 
Dick  Lancaster!"  "Come  into  the 
light,  most  noble  genius,  and  let  me  gaze 
upon  you.  You — you  put  bright  crim 
son  tints  on  all  the  effete  European  cit 
ies,  didn't  you?  I  declare  it's  good  to 
195 


Cape  of  Storms 

see  you  again!  You've  seemed  a  good 
deal  like  a  myth  lately,  you  know;  no 
one  ever  seemed  to  know  just  where  you 
were,  or  whether  you  were  alive  at  all." 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
asking  and  answering  such  pleasant 
questions  as  come  between  two  familiars 
after  a  long  absence. 

"Oh,  there's  not  much  change,"  Van- 
struther  was  explaining,  '  'except  in 
yourself.  You'll  be  no  end  of  a  lion,  I'm 
afraid.  Have  to  do  a  couple  of  para 
graphs  about  you  myself,  just  to  scoop 
the  other  fellows.  Give  me  a  text  or 
two.  Oh,  but  you  have  hit  the  fad  in 
the  exact  centre,  somehow!  I'm  not 
saying  a  thing  against  the  real  value  of 
your  stuff,  but  the  fact  remains  that  this 
whole  blessed  nation  is  fad-mad  just 
now,  and  it  simply  has  got  to  have  a 
fad  or  quit.  Your  European  reputation 
came  along  just  about  the  time  the  fad 
for  the  newest  English  novel  was  dying. 
You  went,  so  to  say,  with  a  whoop. 
One  can't  pick  up  a  Sunday  paper  now 
but  what  one  finds  weird,  impossible  in 
terviews  with  you;  descriptions  of  your 
favorite  models,  or  reproductions  of 
your  newest  sketch.  You  are  depicted 
as  the  founder  of  a  new  style;  they  talk 
of  women  as  being  "  Lancaster-like," 
and  you  are  a  pest  generally.  In  print, 
I  mean,  of  course,  only  in  print.  You 
are  about  to  furnish  my  own  dear  self 
with  material  for  about  a  column,  so  I 
shouldn't  call  you  a  pest;  but  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  reader,  rather  than 
the  penny-a-liner,  I  abhor  you!"  He 
made  a  gesture  of  aversion,  laughingly. 
196 


Cape  of  Storms 

"You  want  to  know  about  the  old 
guard,  do  you?  Well,  Stanley  is  still 
the  same  dismal  distiller  of  cynicisms 
that  he  ever  was;  his  trip  abroad  only 
seems  to  have  made  him  worse.  Bel- 
den?  Oh,  he  plods  along  in  the  same 
old  way,  drawing  bloody  battles  for  the 
dailies,  and  making  all  creation  look 
like  the  prize-ring  'toughs. '  We  have 
the  same  old  Sunday  evenings  up  at  his 
house,  too;  his  wife's  turned  out  well, 
as  far  as  one  can  see.  He  certainly 
doesn't  look  unhappy.  We  were  all  up 
there  not  long  ago,  Marsboro,  Stanley 
and  myself.  Mind  you,  I  never  take 
Mrs.  Van.  I'm  about  the  same  as  ever, 
too.  I've  got  a  blood-curdling  dime- 
novel  on  the  stocks  just  now,  and  the 
'  season  '  is  beginning  for  the  winter,  so 
I'm  not  likely  to  have  much  time  for 
idle  trifling  for  a  while.  Oh, — did  you 
see  Mrs.  Stewart  while  you  were  abroad? 
Thanks!  That'll  be  another  scoop  on 
the  rest  of  the  society  editors.  Hallo! 
three  o'clock, — got  to  be  off  to  the  of 
fice — see  you  again!"  He  rushed  off, 
leaving  Lancaster  smiling  at  his  frank, 
jerky  sentences. 

Lancaster  sat  down  and  took  up  the 
morning  paper.  Before  long  the  adver 
tisement  of  his  exhibition  at  the  mu 
seum  met  his  eyes.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  if  what  Vanstruther  had  said  was 
only  in  part  true,  it  would  be  wise  for 
him  to  go  and  take  a  peep  at  the  show 
this  very  afternoon,  before  people  knew 
he  was  in  town. 

The  place  was  crowded  with  well- 
dressed  men  and  women.  They  flowed 
197 


Cape  of  Storms 

in  and  out  in  a  constant  stream.  They 
held  catalogues  in  their  hands,  and 
chatted  volubly.  In  front  of  one  pic 
ture,  whereon  was  depicted  a  London 
music-hall  scene,  there  was  an  especially 
large  gathering.  » 

"He's  so  dreadfully  cynical,  don't  you 
think  so?"  one  man  was  saying  to  the  girl 
that  was  with  him.  "I  really  think  he 
ought  to  be  called  a  caricaturist." 

"Oh,  but,  after  all,  it's  nearly  all 
true,  you  know.  Look  at  the  expres 
sion  on  that  gallery-god's  face,  will 
you  !  " 

"Wonder  what  sort  of  a  chap  he  is 
personally?  " 

"Oh — impossible,  I  suppose.  Al 
though  I  ought  not  to  say  that;  nothing 
is  impossible  nowadays,  there  never  was 
such  a  run  on  intellect.  I  never  saw 
anything  like  it !  It  positively  seems  as 
if  society  was  intellect-mad.  Singers, 
actors,  painters,  writers — all  sorts  of 
queer  people  go  everywhere  now,  and 
that  isn't  the  worst  of  it!  The  society 
people  won't  be  content  with  just  play 
ing  at  'society'  as  they  used  to:  they 
want  to  sing,  and  paint,  and  write,  too! 
It's  awful!  I'll  have  to  go  on  the  stage, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  myself,  if  I 
want  to  keep  up  with  the  procession." 

Lancaster  moved  away  from  that 
corner.  It  was  amusing,  certainly;  but 
it  was  also  painful.  What  pleased  him 
more  than  the  overheard  conversations 
were  the  little  labels,  displaying  the 
word  "  SOLD"  that  decorated  many  of 
his  sketches.  It  was  balm  to  him  to 
think  that  these  moneybags,  these  pup- 
198 


Cape  of  Storms 

pets  mumbling  set  phrases,  were  being 
despoiled  of  some  of  their  wealth  for  his 
sake. 

Walking  over  to  the  wall  whereon 
hung  the  sketch  for  which  Wooton  had 
been  the  unconscious  model,  Lancaster 
heard  a  voice  that  seemed  familiar. 

"It  certainly  looks  like  him,"  the 
voice  was  saying.  "That  would  be  a 
wanton  brutality." 

It  was  Miss  Tremont.  Lancaster 
flushed  angrily.  What  had  she  to  judge 
by?  It  was  Mrs.  Tremont  who  was  ac 
companying  her  daughter;  the  elder 
lady  moved  away,  that  moment,  to 
speak  to  an  acquaintance.  Miss  Tre 
mont  remained  in  front  of  the  picture 
of  the  drunkard,  her  brows  moving 
nervously. 

Lancaster  stepped  close  up  to  her. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  he  said  quietly,  but 
distinctly,  "  I  should  go  and  look  after 
him.  He  needs  it." 

The  girl  started  quickly,  turned  mo 
mentarily  pale,  and  then,  seeing  who 
it  was,  nerved  herself  to  stony  calmness. 
"How  dare  you?  "  she  said  twisting  her 
catalogue  into  shapelessness. 

"Oh,"  he  laughed,  "  I  really  mean  it 
for  the  best.  As  you  see — "  he  looked 
sneeringly  at  the  sketch — "he's  not  the 
pink  of  sobriety.  And  when  he  drinks, 
he  talks  a  good  deal.  He  sometimes 
talks  about — you,  for  instance."  He 
paused  and  seemed  engrossed  in  noth 
ing  save  the  smoothing  out  of  the 
wrinkles  in  his  gloves. 

"You  coward!"  If  intention  could 
199 


Cape  of  Storms 

have  killed,  Miss  Tremont's  eyes  com 
mitted  murder. 

"True;  I  fear  for  you  both.  And  I 
take  such  an  interest  in  you!  But  I  be 
lieve  he  will  make  an  excellent  husband 
— for  you!"  He  lifted  his  hat,  with  a 
fleeting  mockery  of  a  smile,  and  left  her 
before  the  picture,  staring,  trembling. 

"That,"  he  told  himself,  "was  want 
on  brutality  number  two.  But  she  should 
not  have  judged  me  !  " 

He  left  the  galleries,  taking  with  him 
a  feeling  of  scorn  for  himself,  that  he 
should  have  put  himself  on  the  level  of 
the  praise  or  blame  of  the  fadists  in  such 
a  public  way.  Yet,  he  reflected,  it  had 
been  not  of  his  own  seeking. 

The  afternoon  was  already  touched 
with  the  darkening  shadow  of  evening. 
The  town  roared  and  hissed  and  seethed 
in  all  it's  wonted  fervor;  the  chill-hard 
ness  of  its  material  manners  were  pain 
fully  evident  to  Lancaster  as  he  came 
from  the  comparative  quiet  of  the  pic 
ture-galleries.  He  contrasted  the  grim 
roar  of  the  place  with  the  smiling,  care 
less,  jovial  glitter  of  those  other  towns 
he  had  lately  enjoyed;  for  the  bright 
cheer  of  the  boulevards  and  the  gardens 
and  the  open-air  cafes  he  found  the  sky- 
piercing  buildings  that  shut  out  the  sun 
light,  hemmed  in  masses  of  money-mad 
humanity,  and  extended  apparently  to 
all  the  horizons.  For  the  strolling 
gayety  he  had  grown  to  love  so;  for  the 
ever-changing  current  of  picturesque 
triflers,  idlers  and  dandies, — he  had  re 
ceived  in  exchange  a  breathless  surge  of 
anxious,  nervous,  straining  men  and 
200 


Cape  of  Storms 

women,  plunging  wildly  down  the 
slopes  to  an  imaginary  sea  of  gold. 
Something  of  the  old  repulsion  made 
itself  felt  in  him;  he  foresaw  that  it 
would  never  again  be  possible  for  him 
to  endure  life  here.  That  other  glitter 
ing,  careless,  joyous  maelstrom, — per 
haps;  this  one,  never!  He  realized  that 
while  for  future  generations  it  was  pos 
sible,  for  himself  the  hope  of  finding  an 
American  metropolis  tinged  with  aught 
but  the  feverish  strivings  after  riches 
was  utterly  vain.  He  tried  to  argue 
with  himself  about  it;  to  persuade  him 
self  that  it  was  a  nobler  sign,  this  one 
of  the  masses  all  honest  in  labor  and 
in  pursuit  of  it's  fruits,  than  the  evi 
dences  of  inherited  wealth,  or  quiet  con 
tent  with  small  means,  that  were  the 
prevailing  notes  of  older  countries.  But 
he  failed.  His  temperament  rebelled; 
he  loved  the  smooth,  the  finished 
sides  of  life;  the  artist  in  him  re 
belled  agianst  the  commercialism  of  his 
native  haunts.  If  it  should  be  the  de 
cree  of  fate  that  he  continue  to  seek  out 
life's  most  distracting  enchantments,  he 
would  certainly  have  to  bid  his  native 
land  farewell  again.  If  there  were  any 
thing  else  in  store  for  him;  if  it  hap 
pened  that  he  be  required  by  Dame 
Chance  to  do  something  more  serious 
than  to  laugh,  to  laugh,  and  laugh — 
well,  that  consideration  would  bear  post 
ponement. 

It    seemed    to    him,     as    he   walked 
through  the  streets  that  were   now  be 
ginning  to  glitter  with    the  white   and 
yellow  lights  born  of  electricity  and  gas, 
201 


Cape  of  Storms 

that  these  faces  were  the  same  faces  al 
ways,  that  there  was  never  any  change, 
from  year  to  year,  in  the  puppets  that 
paraded  on  this  urban  stage.  A  thous 
and  differing  types,  to  be  sure;  but 
always  the  same  in  their  hard, 
tense,  sinster  look  of  restraint;  all  wore 
the  same  tiring  eyes,  the  same  rounded 
shoulders.  The  same  fierce  passion  for 
excitement  swam  in  the  eyes  of  the  wo 
men.  In  his  morbidness  he  fancied  that 
it  was  as  if  all  these  city-dwellers  were 
life-prisoners,  condemned  forever  to 
walk,  and  mumble  and  laugh  shrilly. 

"  The  metropolis,"  he  told  himself, 
«is  a  maelstrom  that  never  gives  up  it's 
human  prisoners:  it  merely  changes 
their  cells  occasionally."  At  which  re 
flection  he  presently  laughed.  The  old 
text  came  to  him:  "  The  thing  to  do  is 
to  laugh!" 

"Yes,  "he  thought,  "but  it's  harder 
here  than  anywhere  else.  Much  hard 
er." 

Arrived  at  the  club,  he  ordered  din 
ner,  and  in  the  short  interval,  set  down 
to  write  a  letter  to  his  mother.  For  the 
many  months  of  his  absence  abroad  he 
had  contented  himself  with  sending  her 
occasional  newspapers,  the  briefest  of 
notes,  and  illustrated  magazines.  In 
none  of  these  missives  had  there  ever 
been  the  real  personal,  familiar  note. 
He  had  given  merely  the  scantest  news 
of  his  whereabouts  and  his  well-being. 
In  the  life  and  the  philosophy  he  had 
chosen  there  was  little  room  for  com 
radeships,  even  with  his  own  mother. 
Now,  however,  with  the  distance  be- 
202 


Cape  of  Storms 

tween  them  so  vastly  less,  he  felt  again 
some  of  the  old  affections  that  he  had 
thought  to  have  slain  with  laughter.  In 
any  .event,  he  wrote,  whether  he  decided 
to  remain  on  this  or  that  continent,  he 
would  pay  Lincolnville  a  visit  present 
ly.  They  would  have  that  dear,  delight 
ful  talk  that  the  months  had  despoiled 
them  of. 

As  he  stepped  into  the  dining-room, 
Vanstruther  nailed  him.  "Saw  a  friend 
of  yours  just  now,  Dick,"  he  said,  "Miss 
Ware!" 

"Ah,"  was  the  reply,  given  in  appar 
ent  abstraction,  "they  still  live  here 
then?" 

"Yes.  Dick  did  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  she's  a  devilish  pretty  girl?  " 

"  Oh,  look  here,  Van,"  said  Dick, 
laughingly,  "I  came  to  feed  on  solids, 
not  the  lilies  of  your  imagination.  The 
prettiest  thing  in  the  world  to  me,  at 
this  date,  is  a  good  dinner." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Of\  T  is  impossible,  even  for  the  most 
it  harassed  of  human  beings,  to  be 
<^5  entirely  pessimistic  after  a  dinner 
that  had  been  well  prepared,  tastefully 
served,  and  finely  appreciated.  With 
the  coffee  and  the  liqueur  a  warm 
glow  of  pleasant  sentiment  is  sure 
to  invade  the  dinner;  the  dismal 
reflections  that  harrowed  his  soul 
an  hour  ago  have  fled  at  the  approach 
203 


Cape  of  Storms 

of  that  self-satisfied   feeling  that  marks 
the  man  that  has  dined. 

By  this  time  the  Curacao  called  for 
discussion,  Lancaster  had  succeeded  in 
putting  away  all  thoughts  of  the  cheer 
less  philosophy  of  laughter  that  he  had 
come  to  consider  at  once  his  salvation 
and  his  curse,  and  was  quietly,  even 
hopefully,  contemplating  the  chances 
in  his  intended  interview  with  Dorothy 
Ware. 

It  was  all  a  question,  he  had  now  as 
sured  himself,  of  whether  she  loved  him 
or  not.  If  not,  then  all  other  things 
were  of  no  consequence.  If  she  did, 
but  yet  denied  the  possibilities  of  their 
union,  he  would  venture  all  things  to 
scatter  her  arguments  to  the  ground. 
Nothing  else  need  matter,  so  she  loved 
him.  Who  was  he  that  he  should  ask 
of  any  woman  the  question:  What  art 
thou? 

He  had  a  hansom  called  and  bad  the 
man  drive  North.  The  fierceness  was 
changed  a  little  in  the  face  of  the  town; 
it  was  now  the  fierceness  for  pleasure, 
rather  than  for  riches.  Everywhere 
there  were  couples  hurrying  to  the 
theatre,  the  opera,  the  concert.  Car 
riages  drove  swiftly  through  the  glaring 
streets.  The  restaurants  seemed  shining 
with  the  eagerness  of  expectancy.  Men 
in  evening  clothes  walked  along,  smok 
ing,  laughing  and  chatting.  The  news 
boys  were  gone;  in  their  stead  was  a 
miserable,  skirmishing  band  of  Italian 
tots,  who  used  the  papers  they  carried 
more  as  an  aid  to  mendicancy  than  as 
stock  in  trade. 

204 


Cape  of  Storms 

It  came  to  Lancaster  for  an  instsnt, 
that  he  might  tell  the  driver  to  head  for 
the  Auditorium;  he  might  go  in  and  hear 
that  charming  Santuzza  whose  acquaint 
ance  he  had  made  and  enjoyed  abroad. 
He  might  send  her  his  card;  there 
would  be  a  renewal  of  pleasant  fascina 
tions,  forgetfulness  of  all  other  things — 
and  laughter!  He  lifted  up  his  arm,  to 
tap  for  the  driver's  attention;  his  cuff 
caught  in  the  window-curtain,  and  the 
accident,  slight  as  it  was,  recalled  him 
to  himself.  He  shuddered  a  little;  the 
things  that  shaped  the  courses  of  men's 
lives,  he  thought,  were  so  absurdly  in 
significant! 

When  the  cab  stopped  in  front  of  the 
house  that  the  Wares  occupied  when 
Lancaster  was  last  in  town,  a  flood  of 
brilliant  light  flooded  out  upon  it  from 
the  windows  and  the  hall.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  there  was  an  entertainment  in 
progress.  Could  it  be  that  they  had 
moved?  Lancaster,  paying  the  cabman, 
told  him  to  wait  for  a  moment,  for  fur 
ther  orders. 

But  the  maid,  answering  Lancaster's 
ring,  settled  the  doubt  in  his  mind. 
Miss  Ware,  she  said,  was  receiving.  He 
gave  his  name,  dismissed  the  driver,  and 
entered,  feeling  a  little  annoyed  at  hav 
ing  fallen  upon  such  an  occasion. 

But  presently  Miss  Ware  appeared, 
radiant  in  a  rosehued  gown,  and  wistful 
happiness  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  We  thought  you  were  thousands  of 

miles    away,"    she    smiled.     "What    a 

will-o'-the-wisp   you    are!     Mother  will 

be  ever  so  glad.     We  are  going  back  to 

205 


Cape  of  Storms 

Lincolnville  soon,  you  must  know;  and 
this  is  our  farewell  reception.  Every 
one  has  been  so  kind  to  us;  we  felt  we 
must  do  something  in  return." 

"To  think,"  she  added,  looking  up 
at  him  shyly,  "that  the  occasion  should 
bring  out  such  a  lion!  " 

"Don't!"  he  implored.  "Do  you 
really  think  they'll  know — anything 
about  me?  They  do?  Then,  for  good 
ness  sake  I'm  someone  else — anyone! 
For  I  do  detest — " 

She  interrupted  him  gaily.  "Oh,  no; 
you  are  doomed.  I  shall  introduce  you 
to  the  most  portentous  faddists;  you 
shall  suffer.  That,  sir,  may  be  your 
punishment  for  surprising  me  so!  "  She 
glided  away,  and  returned  with  Mrs. 
Ware. 

Never,  thought  Lancaster,  had  he 
seen  Dorothy  so  gay,  so  cheerful,  so 
roguish.  Whence  came  that  playful 
mood  of  hers;  that  mocking,  joyous 
laughter?  Talking  to  this  and  that  per 
son,  Lancaster  kept  his  watch  upon  Miss 
Ware.  He  saw  her  go  out  of  the  room, 
laughing  and  chattering,  and  the  mo 
ment  she  reached  the  conservatory,  put 
her  hands  up  to  her  forehead  and  press 
them  swiftly  over  Jier  eyes.  The  smile 
went  from  her  lips;  her  whole  form  tes 
tified  to  a  sudden  relaxation  of  an  artifi 
cial  tension. 

A  mask,  Lancaster  told  himself,  a 
mask  for  her  feelings.  She  was  agi 
tated,  but  she  determined  to  hide  all 
that  under  a  cloak  of  gayety.  He  un 
derstood.  Had  he  not  himself  tested 
the  expungent  qualities  of  laughter? 

2C6 


Cape  of  Storms 

As  of  old,  the  touch  of  her  hand, 
the  sound  of  her  voice  had  thrilled  him 
with  a  sense  of  wonderful  gladness.  At 
sight,  at  sound  of  her  all  the  good  in 
him  seemed  to  become  vibrant;  she  was 
still  the  star,  far  above  him,  that  he 
longed  for.  The  comforts  of  his  cold 
philosophies,  the  promises  of  the  epi 
cureanisms  he  had  delved  in  so  deeply 
— all  faded  into  ashes  at  approach  of 
this  girl. 

"We  are  really  very  fortunate,"  a 
voice  behind  him  aroused  him  from  his 
reverie,  "in  having  such  a  distinguished 
guest  with  us  tonight."  It  was  Stanley, 
who  stood  with  his  hand  on  Lancaster's 
shoulder.  "Surprised  to  see  me  here, 
are  you?  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  it's 
only  of  late  that  I've  gone  into  these 
rare  regions.  I  find  that  it  conserves 
one's  pessimism  to  enjoy  the  company 
of  one's  fellow-creatures.  Will  you  ex 
cuse  me,  I  see  that  man  Wreath  coming 
over  here.  I  really  can't  stand  him. 
He  always  remarks  to  me,  sorrowfully, 
'Ah,  Mr.  Stanley,  I'm  very  much  afraid 
you're  not  in  earnest!  "  Why,  the  man 
himself's  an  eternal  warning  against 
being  in  earnest.  There's  nothing  that 
spoils  the  look  of  a  person's  mouth  so 
much  as  earnestness." 

In  truth,  at  that  moment,  just  after 
Stanley  had  deftly  slipped  away,  Mr. 
Wreath  had  solemnly  greeted  the  artist. 
"You  have  shown  great  talent,  Mr. 
Lancaster,  great  talent.  But — "  and 
he  beamed  reproach  upon  the  other, 
"  why  don't  you  dig  deeper?" 

Lancaster  felt  as  if  he  could  have 
207 


Cape  of  Storms 

sworn  at  the  man's  presuming  egoism. 
But  he  merely  laughed,  and  said,  "Ah, 
you  forget  what  a  fellow-artist  of  mine 
once  said,  apropos  of  cleanliness. 
'Wash,'  he  said,  'no,  we  don't  wash; 
we  merely  scratch  and  rub,  scratch  and 
rub.'  I  choose,  in  like  manner,  only  to 
scratch.  If  I  can  scratch  an  effective 
creation,  why  should  I  dig?" 

Wreath  shook  his  head,  with  a  mourn 
ful  smile.  "  Ah,  you  will  agree  with  me 
— later.  In  the  meantime,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  my  next  novel.  Do 
you  think  we  could  make  it  worth  your 
while  to  illustrate  it  for  us?"  He  drag 
ged  Lancaster  off  into  the  library  and 
bored  him,  for  at  least  ten  minutes. 
From  the  other  room  came  sounds  of 
music.  Someone  was  singing.  "InEinem 
Kuehlen  Grunde"  went  the  soft,  sweet 
old  ballad.  Lancaster  promised  Wreath 
that  he  would  let  the  writer's  publish 
ers  know  definitely  in  a  day  or  so, 
whether  he  would  undertake  the  illus 
trations.  He  hurried  back  into  the 
salon,  muttering,  as  he  went. 

"Several  haystacks;  two  threshing- 
day  scenes;  several  prairie  pictures,  one 
for  each  season  of  the  year  —  that's 
about  what  those  illustrations  will  have 
to  be.  Well,  I'd  do  it  twice  over  if  that 
man  would  promise  to  let  me  alone!" 

It  was  Dorothy  Ware  that  had  been 
singing.  She  got  up  just  as  he  entered 
the  room.  She  caught  his  look,  and 
smiled  to  him.  "  You  must  take  me  to 
the  conservatory,"  she  commanded, 
with  a  pretty  air  of  authority,  "for  sing 
ing  is  warm  work."  She  took  his  arm, 
208 


Cape  of  Storms 

and  while  someone  else  went  to  the 
piano  and  began  to  play  the  ballet  from 
"Sylvia,"  together  they  strolled  out  into 
the  cooler  rooms  beyond. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  when  they  were 
snugly  seated  upon  the  cushioned  win- 
dowseat,  "I  must  tell  you  how  proud 
mother  and  I  have  been  of  you.  Oh, 
it  was  so  good  to  read  all  these  praises 
of  you!" 

He  smiled.  "  It  came,"  he  said, 
"because  I  did  not  care  whether  it 
came  or  not.  I  was  indifferent;  and  so 
success  came." 

"'Indifferent?  Why,  Dick?  With  such 
power  it  is  not  right  to  be  indifferent. 
Why—" 

"Why  should  I  be  anything  other 
than  indifferent?  For  myself?  No.  I 
despise  myself  too  much.  I  consider 
myself  only  a  means  toward  amusement. 
And  if  not  for  myself,  for  whom?" 

She  was  playing  with  the  leaves  of  a 
palm  that  hung  down  over  her  shoulder. 

"  No,"  he  went  on,  "  there  was  never 
any  motive  in  it  all.  It  was  all  sheer 
play.  There  was  the  joy,  the  delirium 
of  creation;  that  was  a  sufficient  sensa 
tion;  beyond  that — nothing!  It  might 
be  different  if  ..."  He  stopped  with 
the  word  half  spoken. 

"If  what?" 

He  looked  at  her  swiftly.  There  was 
in  her  face  only  earnest  curiosity  and 
sympathy.  "If,"  he  continued,  "if 
there  were — someone  else.  Oh,  Dorothy, 
dear,  don't  you  see?  Don't  you  realize 
that  it  is  you,  you  for  whom  I  would 
work — yes,  work  and  live?  Doroth3r,  tell 

20Q 


Cape  of  Storms 

me  that  you  are  not  altogether  in 
different.  Once — long  ago — you  said 
you  might  care  for  me.  Then  we 
were  boy  and  girl;  now  we  are  man  and 
woman.  Then  again  you  told  me  to 
forget  you.  I  tried.  I  tried — all  ways 
into  forgetfulness.  I  tried  to  laugh 
away  you,  and  all  the  past;  to  live  only 
for  the  essence  of  the  moment.  And  now, 
Dorothy,  why  don't  you  speak? 

She  gently  disengaged  her  hand  from 
his.  Her  face  was  white,  and  she  could 
only  shake  her  head. 

''But  why?"  he  moaned,  fiercely, 
"why?  Can  you  not  love  me  a  little?" 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  and 
for  a  moment  he  thought  he  divined  the 
framing  of  the  words,  "Ah,  but  I  do 
love  you,"  then  she  merely  sighed,  and 
looked  away  again. 

"Is  it,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  have  put 
myself  beyond  your  mercy?  Have  I  be 
come  too  notorious  a  vagabond?"  He 
laughed  bitterly.  "Well,  it  is  all  true; 
I  am  come  through  all  the  highways 
and  byways  of  life,  and  I  am  touched 
with  the  scum  of  it  all.  Perhaps  you 
are  right.  I  am  not  worthy.  And 
yet — I  only  ask  for  forgiveness,  and  a 
little  love.  With  that,  I  might— be  able 
to — sink  the  bitterness  of  the  days  be 
hind.  But,  as  I  said,  I  dare  say  you  ' 
are  right.  Shall  we  go  into  the  other 
room?" 

"Oh,  Dick,"  she  sighed,  "how  hard 

you  make  it!     Dick,  it  is — it  is  I  that 

am  not  worthy."     She  put  her  hands  to 

her   face   suddenly,   and  pressed   them 

210 


Cape  of  Storms 

feverishly  to  her  cheeks  and  eyes,   and 
then  started  as  if  to  go  away. 

Lancaster  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
it.  "  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "Don't  talk 
nonsence!  Unworthy  of  me — of  a  man 
who  has  used  the  world  as  a  playground, 
and  exhausted  his  days  in  satiating 
curiosity!  Ah,  no!  That  is  imposible. 
There  is  no  one,  Dorothy  —  no  one, 
however  wretched,  who  would  not  be 
worthy  of  me." 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  wailed, 
"you  don't  understand!  I — "  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands  again,  "I  have 
sinned!" 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and 
whispered,  "  What  does  it  matter  Doro 
thy,  if  only  you  love  me?"  Do  you, 
Dorothy,  do  you  love  me? 

She  sobbed,  silently  almost.  Then 
she  looked  up,  and,  as  if  she  were  de 
fining  a  happiness  that  could  never  be, 
said,  "  Yes,  Dick,  I  love  you."  Then,  as 
he  covered  her  brow  with  kisses,  she 
shuddered  in  his  arms,  and  again  moaned, 
"But  you  don't  know,  you  don't  under 
stand!" 

He  smoothed  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
and  looked  tenderly  upon  her.  "  Yes, 
dear,  I  do."  He  burst  into  a  fierce 
trumpet  of  rage.  "  That  cad,  Wooton, 
— he  told  me  some  damnable  lies  .  .  .  ! 
He  was  drunk  .  .  !" 

She  shrank  away  from  him.  "Ah, 
then,  you  see  it  is  quite — impossible!" 

"Dorothy,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  speak 
ing  of  that,  am  I,  dear?     I   am  asking 
you  to  have  pity  on  me,  to  help  me  see 
that  there  are  bright  and  tender  and  true 
211 


Cape  of  Storms 

things  in  life.  I  tell  you  that,  past  or 
no  past,  you  are  as  high  above  me  as  the 
stars.  Why  must  we  listen  to  the  old 
shibboleths,  Dorothy?  Have  you  not 
spent  a  lifetime  of  regret  to  atone  for  a 
moment  of  folly?  And  who  am  I  to 
judge?  I,  in  whom  there  is  no  more  of 
whiteness  left,  save  only  that  I  love 
you!  Consider,  dear,  if  this  is  not  to  be, 
what  our  lives  will  be!  For  me,  all  the 
old  bitterness,  the  efforts  to  drown  all 
things  in  laughter.  For  you — memories  I 
But  if  you  say  'yes,'  Dorothy,  think! 
How  different  the  world  will  seem!  We 
will  go  and  live  in  the  country,  close  to 
the  heart  of  Nature.  All  the  noise  and 
noisomenesses  of  this  town- world  will  be 
shut  out;  we  will  forget  it.  For  you, 
dear,  I  will  work  as  I  never  worked  be 
fore.  Think,  dear — think  of  the  dear 
old,  silent,  restful  hills  of  Lincolnville! 
How  the  insects  hum  in  the  clear  nights; 
how  blue,  how  deep,  how  tender  the 
sky  seems  there;  how  the  very  flowers 
seem  to  wear  more  natural  faces  than 
do  those  of  town!  Do  you  remember 
how,  in  summer,  we  used  to  go  camping 
by  the  river?  The  simple  pleasures,  the 
healthy  out-door  life — can  you  not  be 
lieve  that  it  would  make  new  creatures 
of  us  two,  Dorothy?  The  house — think 
of  the  house  we  would  plan,  the  orchard, 
the  garden!  And  are  we  to  lose  all  that, 
dear,  for  a  whim?  Dorothy,"  he  held 
out  both  his  hands  to  her,  "see,  Doro 
thy,  I  ask  you  to  let  me  not  see  happi 
ness  only  to  lose  it?" 

For  another  moment  she  wavered,  then 
with  a  choking  "Ah,  Dick,  I  love  you!" 

2T2 


Cape  of  Storms 

she  let  him  take  her  to  his  arms.  He 
kissed  her  shining  eyes,  and  said,  fervid 
ly,  "  Sweetheart,  I  thank  you." 


EPILOGUE 

CM  T  was  in  the  first  beauty  of  June  that 
2\,  Dick  Lancaster  brought  her  that  had 
C$  beenDorothy  Ware  home  to  Lincoln- 
ville  as  his  wife.  The  village,  as  I  re 
member,  was  looking  its  fairest;  the 
trees  were  radiant  and  profuse  of  shade; 
the  grass  was  long  and  luscious,  the  birds 
were  cheerful  and  bold.  We  welcomed 
the  two  with  all  the  heartiness  we  had 
command  of;  we  had  known  them  as 
children,  and  we  had  loved  their  mem 
ory  always,  all  through  the  years  they 
had  been  gone.  Of  Dick's  fame  we  were 
immeasurably  proud.  We  wondered  a 
little,  indeed,  that  a  man  so  dear  to  the 
world's  heart  should  find  satisfaction  in 
living  so  far  from  the  pulse  of  it  all. 
But,  we  argued,  if  indeed,  he  preferred 
Lincolnville,  all  the  greater  was  the 
honor. 

Both,  as  we  soon  saw,  had  aged, 
Mr.  Fairly,  who  had  gone  up  to  town 
to  marry  them,  had  told  us  as  much, 
but  we  were  but  little  prepared  for 
the  actual  evidence.  Those  of  us, 
too,  who  were  permitted  closer  glimpses 
into  the  life  of  these  two,  observed  in 
the  two  a  passionate  fondness  for  the 
fields,  for  the  silence  and  stillness  of 
our  life  there  that  was  something  very 
different  from  the  matter-of-course  ac- 
213 


Cape  of  Storms 

ceptance  of  those  attributes  to  our  ex 
istence  that  existed  in  the  rest  of  us.  It 
was  as  if  the  place  were,  for  them,  a 
very  harbor  of  refuge,  a  hospital  in 
which  to  forget  old  ailment,  or  regain 
old  healthfulness.  These  things,  and 
many  other  signs  of  something  wistful 
in  the  affection  they  bore  the  place  and 
the  dislike  they  long  showed  for  leaving 
it,  made  up  for  me  and  many  others, 
something  of  a  mystery.  At  that  time, 
I  knew  nothing  of  the  things  that  had 
occurred  since  Dick  left  Lincolnville. 

Afterwards,  long  afterwards,  it  hap 
pened  that  I  came  to  know  all  the  things 
that  have  been  chronicled  here.  And, 
for  my  part,  I  came  to  love  them  the 
more.  As  Mr.  Fairly,  who,  I  suspect, 
also  knew  something  ot  these  things, 
once  said  to  me,  "If  one  has  not  seen 
the  devil,  one  does  not  know  enough  to 
get  out  of  his  way."  I  consider  that 
Dick  Lancaster  is  much  more  to  be  com 
mended  for  the  honest  life  he  lives 
among  us  than  old  Scrattan,  the  milk 
man,  who  has  never  been  out  of  Lincoln 
County  in  his  life.  And  as  for  Dorothy, 
all  Lincolnville  thinks  she  is  the  sweet 
est  woman  breathing — and  when  a  vil 
lage  as  given  to  gossip  as  is  this  place, 
agrees  on  any  such  eulogy  as  that,  there 
must  be  potent  reasons. 

It  is  an  ancient  trick,  I  know,  and  an 
uncommendable,  this  of  chronicling  the 
lives  of  two  people  only  up  to  the  church 
door.  In  the  lives  of  most  people,  I 
hear  on  all  sides  of  me,  the  tragedy 
only  begins  after  marriage.  Well,  per 
haps  so.  But  I  hope,  for  my  part,  that 
214 


Cape  of  Storms 

for  Dick  Lancaster  and  his  wife  there  is 
not  to  be  much  more  of  battling  against 
the  buffets  of  the  world.  For  them 
there  had  been  so  much  of  tragedy — the 
tragedy  that  is  almost  intangible,  the 
tragedy  that  underlies  the  surface  flip 
pancy  of  our  modern  life — before  Fate 
chose  to  let  them  come  together,  that  it 
would  seem  just  that  thereafter  their 
life  be  but  a  pleasant  pastoral.  As  for 
that  I  cannot  say.  I  know  that  Dick's 
fame  grows  with  each  passing  year;  and 
that  both  he  and  his  wife  are  beginning 
to  lose  the  look  of  weariness  that  was 
on  them  when  they  came  back  to  us. 

I  have  not  given  this  chronicle  as  an 
example  or  a  lesson.  I  do  not  mean 
in  telling  it  to  declare  my  belief  in 
the  theory  that  Christ's  words  "Go,  and 
sin  no  more!"  can  be  perpetually  ap 
plied  in  the  practice  of  modern  life.  I 
have  transcribed  one  episode,  one  group 
of  characters,  one  set  of  lives,  and  hav 
ing  done  so,  I  refer  the  responsibility 
whither  it  belongs  to  the  Being  that 
mapped,  that  directed  those  life-threads. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  in  like  in 
stances,  a  similar  course  would  inevit 
ably  lead  to  happiness.  I  only  say  that 
yesterday,  as  I  was  walking  in  my  garden, 
watching  the  blue-jays  quarreling  in  the 
firs,  I  heard  Dick  and  Dorothy  talking 
and  laughing  on  their  veranda.  There 
was  something  so  infectious  about  their 
gladness  that  I  paused  and  listened, 
without  thought  of  curiosity,  but  rather 
in  something  of  wistful  appreciation  of 
their  happiness. 

"  I  had  not  thought,''  I  heard  him 
215 


Cape  of  Storms 

say,  "that  the  world  would  ever  seem 
so  fair  to  me." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  I  fancied  I 
heard  a  kiss,  but  I  will  not  be  sure. 

"And  all,"  he  went  on,  "is  thanks  to 
you." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence!  And 
then  there  came  a  sudden  frightened 
whisper  from  her:  "Dick — do  you  think 
we  shall  ever  see — him — again?" 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "No,  dear.  He 
is  too  vain,  too  selfish,  too  fond  of  his 
own  safety.  Besides — what  matter  if  we 
did.  He  belongs  to  the  things  that  we 
have  forgotten. 

Then  they  turned,  laughing  into  the 
house,  and  their  voices  gradually  died 
from  my  hearing. 

It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  nipped  the  dead 
leaves  from  my  geraniums,  that  to  these 
young  neighbors  of  mine  Happiness  was 
showing  a  smiling  face.  And  whether 
they  had  deserved  that  or  no,  I  wish  it 
may  be  so  always,  to  the  end. 


FINIS 


216 


LOAN  DEPT 


tto 


SENT  ON  ILL 


otf 


LD2lA-60m-8,'70 
(N8837slO)476— A-32 


M20570G 

366 

P772 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


